


Onward to Deneb

by celluloid



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Banner's Sad Backstory, Character Study, Depression, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hallucinations, Healing, Hope, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Introspection, Isolation, New Asgard, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Recovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Star Gazing, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:33:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloid/pseuds/celluloid
Summary: “We talked about this; actually, we fought about it. I have a people and he does not.”Steve shakes his head. “He has a people. Us.”“Bruce spent two years fighting on an alien planet,” Thor says. “He was lost when I found him. Perhaps he still is, especially with all that’s happened.”...(It gets worse before they can even begin to consider it getting better.Bruce and Thor, in the five-year in-between.)





	1. Year Zero

**Author's Note:**

> I know there's a lot of Discourse™ out there about Endgame. I haven't really gone into any of it - I did a mental reset for my expectations right after the five-year time skip in my first watching of the movie. I know the mainstream interpretation of Ragnarok is "haha funny jokes" and yes, true, but there's also a lot of trauma right under the surface that tends to be forgotten in the midst of the humour. 
> 
> Unfortunately, the impression I got was that, in terms of Bruce and Thor's characters, the same thing happened to them: their reveals after the time skip are treated more as jokes than anything else. So out with the fandom-level expectations, in with the mainstream.
> 
> And then, of course, settling the fandom side of what I wanted through fic.

He stares after him, ignoring the head just liberated from its body.

Then Bruce launches forward, ejecting himself from the Hulkbuster suit so quickly he stumbles on landing, momentum taking him down the steps and allowing him to easily catch up with Thor. He grabs his arm, a soft, “Hey, hey, hey,” emanating from his lips, “are you okay?”

Thor doesn’t even look at him, though his steps slow, as though the fog he’s clearly lost in is somewhat dissipating. Bruce isn’t strong enough to actually slow him down - not like this - but he keeps pace, then speeds up to move his body in front of Thor’s. He lets go of his arm and places both hands up, making contact with Thor’s chest; if he wants to keep going forward, he’d have to physically knock Bruce out of the way now. “Hey,” Bruce says, “stop.”

Thor looks down at him, as if seeing him for the first time. His expression is blank. He stops.

Bruce is left at a loss for what to do; he’s pretty sure behind them everyone else is still in Thanos’ home, though he doesn’t know if any of them are planning on coming out, deciding what to do with the body, figuring out what to do next, or what. Bruce just knows he’s seen Thor in a messed up state before - at his absolute worst, really - and it’s not nothing compared to this, but this is really bad and other than the raccoon, nobody else back there is probably prepared to handle a literal god so fragile.

Nobody had been in the three weeks after the snap, at least.

Huh. _He’s_ the one prepared to handle someone so powerful so on edge. Though Bruce figures he’s had a whole secondary lifetime of having to figure that out for himself.

“Are you okay?” Bruce tries again. He really hopes nobody else follows them out here.

Thor just gives him a quizzical look, his mask breaking as he shows emotion once again. “Of course,” he says, “why wouldn’t I be?”

Bruce, at a total loss for words, just motions behind them.

“Ah,” Thor says, “yes. Well. We’re the Avengers. I avenged. So that’s that, then.”

Thor moves to brush Bruce aside, coincidentally with the hand still holding Stormbreaker. Bruce eyes it as its blade comes in at about his neck level, not flinching, taking in the blood now providing an additional layer of decoration. He vaguely recalls Tony’s incapacitated ramblings, one of the few people allowed in his recovery room, _“All that for a drop of blood_ ” echoing through his mind in Tony’s weakened, disdainful voice. Well, that’s more than a drop. He’s a little sick with himself at how satisfied he is to see it.

Bruce pushes back against Thor’s arm. He meets no resistance, just Thor looking at him funny.

Bruce sits down.

Thor sits down next to him.

They look out over the field before them, crops growing in peace, a quiet world with little to boast of, serene, and all potential chaos still at their backs. Carol and Nebula would technically be the most unpredictable among them because they know them the least, but really, they’re the ones to watch out for: as Thor just proved, as Bruce has proved so often in the past.

“I do not know what you want from me,” Thor says, breaking the silence. “‘That’s that, then,’ I said. What more is there to be done?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bruce replies. “I don’t think we’re going to know for a while. But in the meantime, we need to make sure we’re okay. All of us.”

“And why would I not be?” Thor snaps. Bruce feels a small jolt of electricity. He ignores it. “I just killed the guy who killed half the universe. There. Strongest Avenger gets the job done, all in a day’s work. Really, it’s all of you who should be asking yourselves if you’re okay, because none of you did anything. So are you okay, Banner? Can you live with yourself?”

“You need to calm down,” Bruce says, straining to keep his voice even.

Thor barks out a sharp laugh at that. “Me? Really? _You’re_ telling _me_ to calm down? That is very funny. Are you considering pursuing a new career in comedy? You know, since it would seem I am the only Avenger worth a damn now?”

“You need to _stop_ ,” Bruce says, that last word coming out as something of an inhuman growl. Oh. There he is. “You’re working yourself into hysterics. This is why I came after you. You’re not even close to being okay and that’s the last thing any of us need right now, least of all yourself.”

“Whatever,” Thor huffs, but he makes no move to get up or leave, just sits there, staring forward. Bruce finds himself wondering how anyone ever dealt with the Hulk’s temper tantrums, because he’s at a complete loss. He supposes pounding him into submission or exiling him somewhere tended to get the job done.

“At least clean the blood off your axe,” Bruce finally says, annoyed at how petulant he sounds. Maybe he isn’t the best person for this after all. He’s part overgrown murderous child, too.

Thor looks down at Stormbreaker, amused. “I suppose I should, shouldn’t I,” he says, flicking it through the air, letting droplets of genocidal blood fly off and land where they may on this world that will likely never be inhabited again. He then reaches around to grasp at his cape, ripping it from his shoulders, and wraps the bright red fabric around the blade, rubbing at it slightly. “I don’t know if this is even doing anything.”

Bruce shrugs. “We can clean it proper when we’re back home.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Thor stills. “You may recall my home was destroyed,” he says, slowly, “and then the remainder of my people slaughtered.”

Bruce shuts his eyes. “Not everybody.” He would know; he helped coordinate the escape pods as soon as it was clear mass death was incoming; when Thor had radioed him, Valkyrie, and Heimdall on a private channel while Loki tried to sweet talk and delay the ship that had appeared to all but guarantee Asgard’s extinction. Bruce had the best mind for that; an ability to quickly break down the remaining population and their proximity to available shuttles. Devolving people to nothing more than numbers, a mathematical game to be played, had helped keep his heart rate steady - at least before it needed to get back up there, for all the good that did.

“Ah, yes,” Thor says, mocking, “everybody who was spared who is now lost in space somewhere, soon to die of starvation and dehydration if they haven’t already before reaching a decimated planet unlikely to take them in amidst their own chaos. That is, if any of them survived this asshole snapping his fingers.”

Bruce spreads his hands before clasping one over the other in front of him, agitation taking over his physical posture. He’s hunched over, but his back tenses. “Please tell me how that line of thinking is supposed to help anybody.”

“There is no helping anybody anymore,” Thor growls. “If they were out there then that woman, Danvers, would have found them. She did not, she just found Stark. All there was left to do was kill Thanos. That is now done. Everybody who died is still dead, and shall stay that way. He made certain of that.”

“Space is still a big place,” Bruce insists, an edge to his voice. “Just because she found Tony first doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. You can’t give up on your people like that.” He can’t. The destruction and trauma and death he witnessed first hand can’t have been a zero sum game. They have to still be out there, still making their way towards Earth.

Thor gets back up at that, anger etched into his features. He leaves Stormbreaker at his feet, but it’s a reminder to Bruce how imposing he can be. “My people are no more. Do not tell me what I must do as though you are Asgardian,” he snarls.

Bruce isn’t good at subduing situations; he’s great at taking the bait, though, and Thor’s words hit a nerve he knows they shouldn’t. That he’s clearly looking for a fight certainly helps; god knows it’s been a long time since Bruce has had one he could actually win. So he throws caution to the wind, rising to his feet as well, looking to go toe to toe with Thor. If the Hulk doesn’t want to come out, so be it. “I’m not Asgardian, but I was there, working just as hard as everybody else to save as many people as possible,” he snarls right back, a little chilled at how normal he sounds. He’s still entirely himself and even now, it’s disorienting. “You’re okay ignoring the efforts of non-Asgardians? The deaths of the Sakaarans who fought against your sister mean nothing to you? How dare you—“

“How dare I? How many of those Sakaarans did you yourself fight and kill while playing pet gladiator?” Thor spits. “That you would evoke the names of those who suffered by your hands, of those without a world to go back to, as though you could even begin to empathize with those who have lost everything they’ve known, loved, even hated—“

“What would I go back to?” Bruce yells. “Is it the planet that treats me as though I’m a monster? Or the other one that treats me as though I’m a monster? What people could I possibly have? What world could possibly accept me? And meanwhile you have a people that you’ve just abandoned—“

“Because they are all dead!”

“You don’t know that!”

“Uh, hey, fellas,” a third party steps in, literally on their toes. Bruce breaks eye contact first to see Rocket, his arms outstretched as far as they can go. He looks shattered, the harsh tones of his voice quieter than they’d normally be. “I know this pissing match here is real important and all, but we’re getting ready to leave.”

Thor looks back in the direction of the now-abandoned home; everyone is slowly clearing out from it. “What did you decide to do with the body?”

Rocket blinks, like it hadn’t occurred to him he’d have to answer that kind of question. “Nothing - nobody wants to touch it or bury it or anything. We’re just leaving it.”

Thor nods. “I am going to blow up his house.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Because I want to,” Thor replies as storm clouds start to form above. The air is charged with electricity. “Has everyone cleared its premises?”

Bruce rolls his eyes as he walks away, back in the direction of the ship. He doesn’t so much as flinch when he hears the loud crash of thunder, the smell of ozone mingling with gore. There are so many things he wants right now - to fight, to be proven right, for all of this to have never happened - and he probably isn’t going to get any of it.

God, if he could just see Valkyrie again.

* * *

The flight back is awkward.

Everyone is quiet. Rocket pilots the ship without comment, while Nebula beside him only stares ahead into nothingness. Steve and Nat share a look; Bruce can’t read it, though. He takes in Carol’s clenched jaw and Rhodey biting his lip in worry. 

Thor is with them, but he’s on his own planet as far as Bruce is concerned. He’s since shed his armour, and Stormbreaker lies neglected in the back, still wrapped in red. He’s still angry, that much is obvious, and Bruce would be more worried about his mental state if he weren’t so pissed off himself.

He knows it’s irrational; all of it is. He knows he doesn’t have the right to feel the way he does now, that he and Thor are on the same side, but he couldn’t help but take Thor’s dismissal of his very effort and presence as a personal attack. Combine that with his overall rage at the situation - of course he’d be stuck on stage two when it comes to grief, he’s been stuck on stage two his whole life - he doesn’t know what to do with the direction his brain has gone in. It’s been a long time since he’s been this level of furious and still in full control of his own actions. It’s probably a good thing he’s paralyzed in thought, since pre-Hulk pissed off Banner did his own fair of stupid shit, too.

When they land back on Earth, Rhodey is the first one out of the ship, making a beeline for Tony without sparing anyone a second thought. Steve and Nat leave after, though not as quickly, and hole themselves up in a conference room for the rest of the day. Rocket doesn’t seem inclined to let go of the ship’s controls, sitting there frozen; Nebula remains in her seat as well, as though she has nowhere to go. She probably doesn’t.

Carol is making her way to the two of them at the front of the ship when Bruce finally decides to disembark. He kicks at the grass beneath his feet as he sets foot on his own planet again, then makes his way to one of the compound’s outer walls and leans back against it, staring out at the empty expanse before him, arms crossed and glaring at nothing in particular.

He’s so distracted by his own feelings he doesn’t even notice Thor joining him in leaning against the wall until he speaks out.

“Banner, we need to talk,” Thor says, his voice still hard but at least non-combative. Bruce just opens his eyes and looks up at him.

“Weren’t we just doing that?” he mutters, too far past caring about being an adult right now.

“No, we were about to come to blows,” Thor says. “We need to have a real conversation, because everyone else in my most trusted circle is dead and I need to reach a proper understanding with you.”

That softens Bruce’s resolve some. Thor finally sounds practical, and Bruce can respect the request; as much as he’s ready for Valkyrie to join them any time now, he knows both Heimdall and Loki are gone and without them Thor’s council decimated, regardless of however many survivors actually make it. But at the same time he’s still revelling in his own anger, and it feels so good in a way it hasn’t in so long, and he knows he has no right but for the past several weeks - since he’s woken back up, really, and that wasn’t all that long ago - all he’s done is try to play the hero and it’s gotten them nowhere and he’s just tired and furious all at once.

“Can we do this in the morning?” Bruce asks.

Thor levels him his gaze - something that would likely be imposing for anyone else, Bruce figures, but they’ve been through too much together - and, after a moment, gives him the briefest of nods. “I suppose that would make the most sense, yes.”

With that, he retreats inside. Bruce stays out a while longer yet, watching icily as the sun sets, and growls to himself again as he finally gives up and makes his way to what’s become his first bed on Earth in years.

* * *

After the first, early alarm - set only to check on Tony, much to the man’s annoyance; Bruce rolling his eyes as he takes stock of his vitals, switches out the IV bag, doing everything he can to ensure his health in his extremely limited capacity; but then again, who would be prepared for this, and Bruce is the only person with even a hint of medical knowledge Tony is going to let near him - he figures that’s it, no more.

Bruce will wake up whenever it is he does, and that will suit everyone else just fine. It’s not depression - he tells himself that, at least - it’s just making sense of what his body needs. What further appointment is he going to have? What’s going to demand his attention beyond sunrise? Who even is he on this scale?

A thought crosses his mind when he wakes up for the second time, before he decides to ignore it and go back to sleep: Did Ross survive? If he did, does Ross even care that he did?

And then he buries himself back under the covers: Did Betty survive? It’s been years. A decade. She’s moved on. He has no right to reinsert himself in her life if she has. And he doesn’t want to know.

The third time Bruce wakes up, a clock informs him it’s late morning. He figures he’ll actually stand up this time. He does not figure he’ll dress for any occasion, finding something comfortable and just a little oversized. He doesn’t even own any clothing at this point; it’s truly a wonder for him to consider. He doesn’t own anything.

He could go back to being a nomad again. He could slip out right now and just be gone. How would they track him, especially with better things to do?

Bruce re-enters the world of the living and makes his way back to Tony’s room. Since neither Pepper nor Rhodey have come to him in the interim he assumes it’s status quo. He’s right; his friend is passed back out, Pepper as well in the chair beside him. Bruce quietly wanders his way out to a common area, foregoing the kitchen because the thought of eating just seems grotesque.

He doesn’t see Thor until the early afternoon, which Bruce figures makes sense; out of everyone who expended any amount of emotional energy the day before, Thor had the roughest go of them all.

Of course he’s back in the hoodie.

They make eye contact and Bruce motions to the other half of the couch. He doesn’t exactly have a large frame and he’s taking full advantage of that combined with poor posture, legs tucked under him, scrunched into the corner, small. When Thor obliges and takes up most of the rest of the room available, Bruce just closes the book he hadn’t even been reading and puts it down on the table beside him.

“So,” he breaks the silence.

“So,” Thor replies. They stare at one another. The silence resumes.

Bruce has less of a lifetime to work with, and far less patience to go with it (an irony, considering the previous day’s event). “I’m sorry,” he starts, “I didn’t have the right to impose myself on your affairs—“

Thor holds up a hand. “Yes and no,” he interrupts. “No, you did not, especially as whatever may befall you, your world and your species continue to exist. Feel free to discuss that particular matter with me when that is no longer the case. However, I did not have the right to erase you from the narrative of Asgard’s destruction, as though I weren’t trying to recruit you to fight one of my battles, as though Heimdall didn’t lose his life sending you to act as messenger. So I apologize, as well.”

Bruce blinks, then nods. “Thank you,” he says. He knew Heimdall died right after he was suddenly flung back to Earth. Thor had had the chance to detail his personal losses as they sat there, waiting for word from somebody, anybody, that they were entering the atmosphere. “You know I did everything I possibly could on the Statesman. You know I tried to get as many people out of there as I could—“

“I know,” Thor says. “I do not doubt your desires or your efforts. I am sorry that it was all in vain.”

Bruce’s heart rate ticks up a notch. His nostrils flare. “This again,” he snaps.

Thor levels him a warning gaze. “There is no evidence to make me think otherwise, so yes, ‘this again.’ I am not blaming you, I am accepting reality. Are you not a man of science? Do you not consider probability?”

“Not when there’s a nonzero chance that people are still alive,” Bruce says. He gets quiet. “Because after every time the Hulk went on a rampage, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”

Thor looks away at that. “Personal wishes aside—“

“They’re your people and you’re their king,” Bruce interrupts. “You still have to plan for what to do should anyone be left. You’re not allowed to assume the worst, not when they’ll be looking to you for leadership.”

“And some leader I am,” Thor scoffs. “In my challenge for the throne - a throne I never wanted, at that - I destroyed the planet, killing who knows how many of my people in the process who weren’t able to escape in time. Weeks - days? - into my makeshift rule over refugees, we are ambushed and slaughtered. I journey and find the dwarves of Nidavellir massacred. Under my rule everyone has died - and you suggest myself desirable, even capable, to lead anyone who has survived that hell? Are you mad?”

“They’ll need someone to hold on to, some sense of normalcy, tradition,” Bruce says softly. “Like it or not, that’s you; was intended to be you for centuries, going by what you’ve told us in the past. And besides, you’re strong; the strongest among us, if I remember correctly…?”

Thor sputters. “That’s not fair.”

Bruce gives him a small smile. “Hey, your words, not mine.”

Thor just shakes his head. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

For the first time since Bruce first woke up on the Statesman, stretched out on a single couch, inhabiting a building that’s more empty air and open space than the last time they were all in it, things almost feel like normal, like there’s still life to be lived. They’re still far away from that - impossibly so, the hollowness of the compound only driving home the point, the matter that they’re perfectly comfortable talking about horrors and personal details and the marriages of the two in a wide open space, privacy easy to find wherever they go - but it’s a moment, and it’s more of a moment than they’d had in at least a month.

A week later, Valkyrie’s voice reaches them, locked on to an energy signature that could have only come from Nidavellir and requesting immediate aid.


	2. Year One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could promise quick updates, but alas, all I can really promise are many words. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's decided to follow along with me early! There's a lot coming up I'm looking forward to writing.
> 
> (My actual real world field of expertise makes a brief appearance; the rest of the logistics in this chapter are just me, uh, trying to find things that could conceivably work. They aren't the focal point though so I hope it's all fine.)

Chaos breaks out on their end, and they at least knew this was a possibility.

Thor is the first one on their end of the radio, having shot up the second he heard Valkyrie’s voice, sending back confirmation, telling them to keep descending this way, that there’s enough open area to accommodate them. Then he’s rushing outside, catching first sight of alien spacecraft breaching the Earth’s atmosphere, slowly making their ways down toward the open ground surrounding the compound, Bruce hot on his heels.

Steve immediately takes over the line of communication to the Asgardian refugees, his calm, authoritative tone guiding them down, informing them it’s safe to land and they’ll get them help immediately. Rhodey is on a separate line, contacting the highest ranking military official he knows is still alive, informing him of refugees entering the atmosphere, assuring him that they’re friendlies and will likely be in need of any medical aid they may be able to spare. Carol takes to the skies, immediately ready to help any ships in sign of distress, assist in their landing, guide any strays down to land.

The go, go, go sentiment only ramps up when the first shuttle touches down and opens up. Valkyrie stumbles out, right into Thor’s arms. Bruce runs into the ship past them, brain immediately taking stock of the problems he’s going to have to solve: emaciation, dehydration, space. They’re going to need space. He sees someone he recognizes, thin, skin practically see-through, and rushes over to help them stand, help them descend into fresh air, calling for the stronger ones to help get everyone who needs it out and at least into the open, back into a natural world. More shuttles touch down and it’s going to be an impossible task.

By this point Nat has taken over Steve’s place, sending him off to recruit whoever else is still even available. He has Pepper away from Tony for the first time since he returned, rounding her to collect pillows, blankets, cots, anything soft and clean that people can rest on. Nine shuttles touch down, all safe; he orders Carol to round up fresh water before she can so much as open her mouth to ask what to do. Rocket he has scrounging up whatever quick and easy food he can find. After hearing Bruce yell for someone to get their ass to their medical wing he grabs Nebula and they rush off to grab anything and everything they might need. It’s surprisingly efficient, but the sheer influx of - somehow, still thousands - of bodies needing help, combined with Steve’s practicality and leadership, has them all running not like chickens with their heads cut off, but with purpose.

Pepper keeps running inside and out, flustered, just dumping whatever she finds onto the ground before running back inside to try to find more. Thor takes over laying it out and distributing as Valkyrie helps Bruce triage everyone to still touch down, Valkyrie giving them their directions, Bruce splitting from her as the most in need of care become apparent and start to gather in one area. His mind is going a mile a minute, his heart is racing, and he doesn’t have time to think about anything but examining as many as fast as he can, quietly directing those he can see are beyond saving to the edges of the setup to die hopefully in peace before turning his attention to trying to sort out everything Steve and Nebula have unceremoniously brought him.

Nebula ends up joining Rocket as Carol works to set up a water station. Nat runs out to get the full debrief from Valkyrie as Thor wades among his people, helping the ones who need to move to do so, standing tall and without emotion, a commanding presence among the decimated. From inside they can occasionally hear Rhodey yelling, demanding medical aid, switching lines to contact locally-based emergency services and telling them to rout as many ambulances and medical personnel as they can spare to the Avengers Compound. Inside, Steve works to set up recovery stations through their common areas, unceremoniously tossing furniture aside in favour of dedicated individual spots.

It’s midday, the sun high in the sky.

It’s midnight, the moon high in the sky, and they’re all still going, with the additional help of - fortunately - dozens more emergency vehicles and a little over a hundred more medical professionals who actually know what they’re doing. Nat has taken over the yell at the government shift, a neverending spectacle to ensure everyone’s safety in the short term, well before they start thinking long. Carol and Rhodey have flown off to raid food from wherever they can and bring it back; Pepper has been preparing and sorting and cooking what they already have for hours, Rocket running around all over the kitchen at her orders. Thor continues to move through his people, listening, helping bring anyone inside who still has yet to be moved. Bruce is elbow-deep in surgery, not his profession but something he’s just qualified enough to do, especially considering how shorthanded they are; outside, Steve and Nebula quietly move the remains of those who made it to Earth only to die.

It’s midday and more emergency vehicles have arrived. They’ve been able to set up stations, one common area turning into a mess hall, actual lines established as they work to distribute food and water. Rocket has somehow ended up on the yell at the government shift. Nebula has taken over caring for the bodies they’ve lost alone, quiet and calmly moving about her business, a ghost nobody pays any mind. Bruce remains in surgery. Thor remains among his people, a never-leaving presence, foregoing everything and anything he could possibly need in favour of someone else.

It’s midnight, just shy of two thousand Asgardians remain, the most desperate of it somehow finally over, and the original inhabitants of the Avengers Compound have finally passed out.

* * *

“We were able to stay linked up,” Valkyrie says. She’s sitting on the floor of their largest conference room, blanket draped over her shoulders, half-finished bowl of soup at her feet. Thor, Bruce, Steve, Nat, and Rhodey sit with her. The exhaustion in the room is overwhelming; outside, they’re sure it’s worse. “All nine of us.”

But Valkyrie has gotten special treatment among the refugees. It’s been a week and things have stabilized; those who are still alive are going to live. They need Valkyrie in her best shape over everyone else, though; they need to start planning for the long term and her voice is going to be a key part of that.

“That’s how we knew when something had happened, it had happened across all our shuttles,” Valkyrie continues. She shuts her eyes, not willing to put further words to the dust. Everyone’s well aware, anyway. “I don’t know how many we lost. We probably lost just as many to illness, except those bodies we had to jettison.”

“Fucking bastard,” Thor growls, and it stays quiet for a moment after, the aftershocks of the rumbling of his voice reverberating around the room. “Half of all life my ass, he’s driving us to extinction.”

“Not yet,” Valkyrie says, though she has that same fury undercutting her words, two Asgardians out for blood no longer obtainable shifting the energy in the room to a nervous dangerousness. “We are going to get through this; that piece of shit will not be the death of us. I will not let it.”

Rhodey coughs. “Here is fine, but outside of this room, we need to drop the language and murderous tones.”

Thor and Valkyrie turn to sharply look at him. “You would dare—“ Thor starts.

Rhodey holds up his hand to stop him. “I would, because we are negotiating for an alien race to become citizens of Earth. Everyone’s already freaking out without this on top of everything, and we’ve literally never had to deal with this before. Relocating people from one country to another has always been one thing; a whole other planet to ours? We need to be on our best behaviour.

“Don’t forget we’re shorthanded here, too: Tony’s only just starting to get it back together, Steve and Natasha are technically still fugitives, I don’t even know what Bruce’s status is but I can already tell you it’s not good, and everyone else is an alien. It’s you two and me to argue for something Earth has never even considered ever having to do. So you can’t give any indication of being violent. At all. Or we might lose this.”

“Rhodey’s right,” Steve says. “I hate to impose this on you, but Earth already has problems among its own people, let alone a new species joining them they know nothing about. You have to fit into their idea of victims: hurt, suffering, and above all else, peaceful and non-threatening. You want to believe in the best of humanity but you have to prepare for the worst, and we can be an ugly people.”

Thor takes a shuddering breath. “They know of me, though, yes? The people we must convince?”

“Yeah,” Rhodey says, “but you missed the whole deal where we had to sign these accords. Register with the UN, basically. You’ll probably all have to do that, it’ll probably be a whole new thing. You’re basically submitting but there’s really no other choice.”

Valkyrie dips her head. “Well, it’s not as though my pride can’t be beaten any further.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says. She nods at him in acknowledgment, turns her attention back to the soup she’s slowly consuming.

“We’ll continue game planning for this,” Rhodey says. “We still have some time. And I’m sure we’ll win, and somewhere on Earth will become your new home: we just need to be perfect before we get there.”

“No pressure,” Nat quips. Valkyrie swallows a laugh into her spoonful, nearly choking on it.

“Everything you’ve done for Earth will be an asset for us,” Rhodey says to Thor. “And you’ve done a lot. If we can get Tony to testify, we will; his word and yours will probably be massive in swaying public opinion in your favour.”

Bruce bites at his lip before taking the plunge and finally speaking. “We need to allow the media here.”

“What?” Thor asks, at the same time as Rhodey points at Bruce and says, “Yes.”

“We need to get camera crews and the best writers journalism has to offer and play up watching your home destroyed and the hell that was the journey to get here. We need to broadcast this. You’ll need to dictate just how bad things have been, even before the snap. None of us will be a part of it - we all need to stay as far away as possible. But the face of Asgardian despair needs to be front and centre, and it needs a mass audience.”

“Absolutely not,” Thor starts. “I cannot allow my people to be exploited so, not after everything that has happened—“

“Bruce is right,” Steve cuts in. “It’ll better your chances. We can point to all too many instances in human history that back that up. Because right now, everyone is still having a hard time accepting what’s happened. They’ll be thinking of themselves. We have to physically show them how much worse your people have it to make an impact. And you can’t spare any details from all you’ve had to go through before you made it to Earth.”

“Show, not tell,” Nat says. She takes a deep breath of her own. “And children should be front and centre.”

“You can’t be serious,” Valkyrie says. When all four humans in the room can only respond by directing their gazes to the floor, she shakes her head. “You’re serious.”

“We still have the graves being dug around the back,” Thor says, like a suggestion.

Bruce nods. “Yeah. We’ll need to get that on camera, too.”

“We can win this, and guarantee a home for your people,” Rhodey says. “It’s going to be ugly. You’re probably going to hate every second of it. But it will be worth it.”

Thor takes a breath to steady himself. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “I will make the rounds, find those who wish to talk, who are comfortable with being seen,” he says, rising. “At least try to keep their dignity intact by letting it be their choice.”

Bruce stands up after him. “I’m going to check on our intensive care unit,” he mumbles. He needs out of this meeting. It’s suffocating.

He follows Thor out the door, and before they go their separate ways, he wordlessly continues to follow him down a small hallway, far away from where any other living souls might still be.

“Banner,” Thor says, turning to him, “you are, by default, Asgard’s Midgard expert. Even if you cannot argue for us, I still must trust your word over everyone else’s when it comes to this. Is what they are saying true. Is what you said in there really true.”

“Yeah,” Bruce answers, voice hoarse. “Yeah. All of it. Visuals of suffering beyond what any human has had to endure over the past weeks will be necessary to get the world onto your side and pressure those in power to grant you asylum. Kids especially. Earth hasn’t had to bury many bodies, comparatively; Asgard has. You need to play on people’s emotions - there’s going to be a lot of people arguing that you should go to some other planet and we need to shock and awe them into submission and overwhelm any practical argument they may have with emotion.

“These tactics were all used on me, they helped make Hulk public enemy number one and kept me in hiding and on the run for years. Remember Johannesburg? And how we ended up in the middle of nowhere with Clint for a bit? Same deal. We have to do the same thing to get people on our side.

“I know just how bad you’ve had it. I was there for a lot of it. I know how much you don’t want to have to do this. But there’s no margin for error, so…”

Thor sighs, shuts his eyes, rubs at his temples. “I hate this,” he says, voice rough but quiet. “I hate this so fucking much.”

“Yeah,” is all Bruce can say in response.

* * *

When Bruce goes to check on his last patient he shuts the door behind him, wordlessly slumping against it, desperate to close off everything else outside of the room and pretend it doesn’t exist for just a moment.

“Hey,” Tony says from his bed.

“Hey,” Bruce responds, voice hoarse. He takes another second before getting back up and making his way towards his friend. “How are you feeling?”

Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “It looks like I’m the one who should be asking you that.”

Bruce shrugs. “Yeah, well.”

“It’s sounded like hell out there,” Tony comments innocently enough. He’s sitting upright, looking and sounding more alert than he had before all of this started. His eyes are bright, his face less gaunt. He fiddles with his IV.

“Don’t touch that,” Bruce sighs, like he’s talking to a child. “Actually, hey, stand up. Walk around the room for me if you can.”

“If I can,” Tony mutters under his breath, complying, taking the drip with him. He’s still skinny, but his steps are certain. “Seriously, doc, how’s it going out there?”

“Don’t call me that,” Bruce says. It implies he’s a medical professional. He’s not. If he were he’d have done a better job, probably never would have experimented with gamma radiation to begin with. So many problems would have been solved. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better when you answer my questions,” Tony quips.

“Tony, please,” Bruce sighs. This is normal. This would be comforting if there weren’t hundreds of dead Asgardians in their backyard. Thor took over digging most of their graves when he should have been sleeping, traditional burial means unavailable. “I need a win here.”

“Alright, well, I think you’ve got one,” Tony says, doing a little twirl. He’s steady on his feet. “Right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Whatever colloquialism you want to use. So, how are you?”

Bruce moves to write Tony’s response on his chart. Documentation is important. He still feels like he’s playing pretend, though. “Tired,” he says. He turns back to Tony. “Okay, let’s get the IV out. You say you’re fine, you look fine, you’re fine.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Tony says, and really, his response can apply to both statements. He flexes his hand as the IV is removed. “How bad is it out there?” his voice drops, typical lilt from it gone, serious.

Bruce mulls over his answer. “It’s bad,” he says. “It’s getting better, but it’s bad. It was always going to be bad. Some of them are still touch and go, everyone still needs care and we barely have the resources for them all. I was with them for a lot of it, Tony - I don’t know how we bring an entire people back from the brink of extinction.”

“By saving who you can and going from there,” Tony says. “You’ve done that.”

“And now comes the hard part.”

“Yeah, but that was always going to come. Every single day is the hard part. Eventually it’ll just start being… the part,” Tony’s voice drifts off. “Okay, that got away from me, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” Bruce says. He looks down at the IV he’s still holding, throws it in the trash. 

Tony takes Bruce’s lapsing silence to turn away and take the change of clothes Pepper had brought him at some point. Bruce is about to say something else when he looks up, sees Tony without shame, and turns around, staring at the wall instead. “Really?”

“What?” Tony asks innocently enough. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” Bruce takes a glance back, seeing him shimmy into a pair of pants.

“I meant to bring that up with you,” Bruce says.

“Bring what up?”

“You wear your pants too tight.”

“I what now?” Tony stops mid-action, levelling a gaze at Bruce he cannot discern.

Bruce is left wondering why in the hell he said that. “Um,” he says. “When Thor rescued me. In outer space. Before all of this. I’d, I’d been the Hulk for two years, you know that. So I didn’t have any clothes. The only clothes available were something you’d left on the Quinjet I— he— stole. Flew off with. Whatever. So I had to wear your clothes. So, um, you wear your pants too tight.”

Tony just cocks his head at him, a grin slowly making its way across his face. “Yeah, well, I got a lot to show off.”

“Oh my god.”

“Maybe you do, too?”

“Oh my _god_.”

“So are you going to need this room?” Tony asks, effortlessly shifting subjects as he pulls a new shirt over his head. “I mean, you know I got my own digs here, and if it’s that bad out there…”

Bruce takes a deep breath, trying to get himself back in a practical mindset. He has no idea how Tony does this. “Yeah, probably. I don’t know.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I can’t— There’s, like, eighteen hundred, nineteen hundred people out there, Tony. The ones who are still alive. They all have something wrong with them and there’s nobody here who can look after them. I don’t know how we’re supposed to salvage this.”

“You looked after me just fine,” Tony supplies.

Bruce shakes his head, his hand moving to massage at his temples. “That was a— I don’t know what that was. I’m not a medical doctor. I never have been. I’m not the guy who saves lives, I could never be that person. I have a passing knowledge of human anatomy. _Passing._ It’s dumb luck that Asgardians are similar enough to us physiologically, but even then, that anyone’s life could be in my hands, let alone nearly two thousand of them—“

“Hey big guy,” Tony says, suddenly near him, and Bruce’s heart skips a beat. When did he get there. Tony’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders. “You’re spiralling. You’re also beating yourself up, but first things first, snap out of it.”

_Oh god,_ Bruce thinks, _the last thing any of us need here is the Hulk—_

And then he comes to a realization. He stills, his breathing slows, and he looks Tony in the eye. “What colour am I right now?”

“Peachy keen,” Tony supplies. “There’s not a hint of green anywhere on you.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Bruce says, suddenly facing a new problem.

“Yeah, well, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” Tony shrugs. “That’d be enough to make anyone forget they’re supposed to hulk out under those exact circumstances.”

“He isn’t even saying anything right now,” Bruce says. “Normally I can at least hear him in my head, throwing his own private tantrum or fighting to get out, but he’s just been completely quiet. Like he’s not even there. At all.”

Tony eyes him. “Is he dead?”

It’s a stupid question, but also, Bruce realizes it might be entirely valid. “I don’t know… I didn’t think he could die? I couldn’t at least, thanks to him.” Nothing more than a passing memory of the then-lowest point of his life. That’s been replaced. “But I haven’t really heard from him since Thanos…” he trails off, not wanting to recall the singular moment everything went so horribly wrong.

Tony takes his sudden silence differently. “Do you think he killed Hulk but left you? His half of all life bullshit?”

Bruce would consider it, except. “No,” he says, “he was with me for a moment when I was telling Thor off. After he decapitated Thanos. Thor was freaking out and it made me start to freak out and he was there for a moment. And then he was just gone again.”

Tony pokes at Bruce’s forehead; Bruce glares at him. “Like he’s asleep or something?”

“I have no idea. I just know it’s like he isn’t there anymore.”

“But he is?”

“I would think so, but I can’t prove it.”

“Huh,” Tony muses. “Isn’t that kind of like what you’ve always wanted? To be free of him? You’ve been running around everywhere, saving so many people’s lives - and don’t think I’m letting you off the hook with your ‘all I do is kill people’ bullshit, you’ve clearly proven that’s not the case, from me onwards - and never once were you not, well, you. That’s what Pepper said, at least. That you were both freaking out but also completely calm. Isn’t this like, a perfect scenario for you, personally, everything else aside?”

Bruce mulls on it.

“You’d think,” he says, but in his gut it all just feels horribly wrong.

* * *

Thor takes a deep, steadying breath. It doesn’t help. He knows he’s being recorded, but he also knows it’s not being broadcast live. That doesn’t take away any of the pressure to be anything less than perfect, though.

He is also astoundingly, painfully, alone.

He is head of state and they do not have anyone else available to possibly be an ambassador. (Ideally it would have been Loki, though that ideal was shot down several years ago. Ideally it would have been Heimdall. Maybe even Volstagg. It would never have been him.) He also has the most familiarity with Midgard, though, a mostly positive public persona to build off of. So he can do this. He can do this. He can do this.

Valkyrie had led the charge on the media front, taking journalists through tours of their remaining ranks, filling in context and letting the images and others’ words speak for themselves. They’ve already received positive testimonies from Rhodes, Stark, and Okoye, the woman he’d only had the pleasure of meeting in the aftermath. She was a wreck and yet still strong for her people, taking charge in everyone else’s absence despite her status as a warrior, not a head of state.

She is not here, her personal bias disqualifying her from being a part of this final spectacle, though her words of support carry a great weight, fresh in the minds of those whose favour he still must win.

He needs to channel her. He needs to be her.

Thor exhales.

“My people require asylum, and we would pledge our services to Midgard - I would pledge everything I have in me to Midgard - for I have always loved it and we have nothing left.”

He’s never been to the UN before. He’s never been before any governing body on Midgard, really; he wasn’t bound to any laws before and had an easy means of coming and going as he pleased. He technically still has the latter thanks to Stormbreaker, but he can’t even begin to fathom where else he might go. This has been his second home for a few years now. Before then, he hadn’t had a second home. 

He’s not quite sure how to convey that love into words, doesn’t know if they would even make a difference if he could. Just that he would rather die before see further harm befall this world, whether Asgard is accepted or not.

Someone asks Thor where, if beggars could be choosers, they would settle.

“Norway,” he says instantly. “My father lived there in exile for a time. He died there. He seemed to have found peace there. There was this stretch of land along the coast, it was barren of settlements. My people no longer number even two thousand. It seems to me poetic if we could settle there, where he alluded to me in a vision, though I understand life is not poetry.”

He is asked how Earth knows it can trust him.

Thor wields Stormbreaker, cutting off Thanos’ head.

“You cannot, no more than you can trust anyone else,” Thor says. 

The deliberation takes days. Thor finds himself holed up in a nearby hotel room, Rhodes and Stark with him to offer their own forms of continued support, everyone else back at the compound waiting on an uncertain fate. Thor thinks that this, truly, is a new form of hell. He’s completely powerless, even though he’s really one of the most powerful beings anywhere near this world. He could force Midgard to accept Asgard; anything less would have been completely unthinkable a mere few years ago.

He was younger then, though, and he’s grown up a lot in the blink of an eye. Trauma might do that, he muses; some of it maybe for the best, knowing a younger version of himself would have threatened to raze humanity immediately to the ground if he did not get his way.

Now, Thor waits, pensive and unwilling to take matters into his own hands. 

“What do I do if they say no?” he asks.

“They won’t,” Tony replies. “You’re going to be fine.”

“But we do not know that for certain,” Thor says.

Rhodey shakes his head. “They wouldn’t be taking this long if they were going to say no,” he says. “They’re trying to plan logistics, negotiate, see how they can make this work. Sometimes you just have to have a little faith.”

Thor thinks back on the last time he had faith, when he buried an axe in someone’s chest, convinced of his own strength that he could be unmatched, that things would work out for him. The time before that, he unleashed Ragnarok on his home, ending countless lives, and he feels nothing but dread.

He’s given the chance to call Valkyrie before the decision is made public, utilizing a cellphone for the first time, marvelling at how quaint the technology is, how unlike anything he’s had to use before, and how it’s likely to soon become his new normal: the Norwegian government has offered them a year on a small expanse of coastline. Their entire remaining population will have to register with the UN, and they will not be granted sovereignty, eligible to receive aid and benefits. They will be monitored over the year and required to give a monthly status update. Things will be revisited after the first year is up, and Midgard reserves the right to expel them from their planet at any time. The terms are non-negotiable.

Thor, a king in traditionalist terms only, accepts, a new world on his shoulders. He asks Valkyrie over the phone if she thinks any of this is okay.

“It gives our people more time than I thought we’d ever have. That’s worth a lot,” she says. “Like they said, nothing is set in stone: but this is more certainty than I’ve felt since before I met you. I trust you.”

There’s media fanfare when he returns to upstate New York. Asgard is quiet, packing; another move in a short period of time tends to make things exhausting. But there’s an undercurrent of hope, relaxation, even joy; the smiles for the cameras are genuine, the relief palpable in many’s body language.

Thor stands alone, looking around what had once been their mess hall, now mostly cleaned out. He’d visited Midgard plenty of times before, had extended stays, dined and slept and had space for his own possessions, but he’s never actually lived here. Lived somewhere without any other Avenger mere steps away. It’s pointing towards being his new normal, his new permanent state of being, and it’s odd. Unlike everyone else, he actually has a frame of reference to compare this to, and it’s disorienting.

Bruce comes to him in his revere, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“So are you happy?” he asks.

Thor blinks, then looks down at him. “Not quite the word I’d use,” he says, “but this is a good thing.”

Bruce nods once.

Then, “I’d like to come with, if you’d have me.”

Thor starts at that. “What? Why?” He realizes only after the words have left his mouth it wasn’t quite the nicest thing to say.

Bruce doesn’t seem to mind, though, smiling a little at that. “Where else would I go?”

“Do you not have a home here?”

“Thor,” Bruce starts, “you found me on an alien planet where I’d been the Hulk for two years. That was my home. Before then I couldn’t even begin to tell you where I actually lived. I don’t have anything—“ he shrugs the shoulder with the backpack strap on it, drawing Thor’s eyes to it— “and I haven’t for a while. I actually know you, though. And I want to help, like I tried to before.”

Because Thor isn’t the only one who’s failed throughout this journey - they all have, even if the weight of the world is on his shoulders alone, a new world unblemished by a fiery demon with a sword to match, plunging between his shoulder blades, down his spine.

“Of course,” Thor says. “I asked you first, after all.”

Bruce’s smile grows, and Thor starts to think maybe there’s a way to make this work. If one lost soul is willing to try to forge a new home where he’s going, who’s to say the rest can’t follow suit?

* * *

Several are still weakened by their journey, some unable to travel overseas, but there are also plenty of Asgardians strong enough to commit to physical labour. They receive building supplies and materials on a credit system, nobody quite sure yet how Asgard currency is going to work out with the rest of Midgard, but shelter is the more pressing issue. Some groups from around the world send volunteers to help with the construction; Tony offers up his nanotech for their interim, until permanent structures start to come to form.

The first day is more about setting up tents for them to eat and sleep under than anything else, while those with more of an eye for design and planning scout the landscape they’ve been given to work with and start drawing up maps for their new home.

Thor ventures out from his tent on the first night. It’s not his alone - nobody’s in a position to have their own private quarters yet, and he’s constantly aware of his need to be among his people, not above them - so he tries to leave as quietly as he can, fortunately already near one of its exits. He moves to stare out over the ocean’s waves lapping up at the cliffside, looking out over an expanse that promises freedom and security and an overwhelming sense of home. The spot where his father died, one of the last moments he had to be at peace with his brother. The beginning of the end of his family as he knew it.

There’s a melancholy weighing him down, but there’s also hope to counteract that, bringing his spirits back up. The future is no longer quite so uncertain (he helped see to that, executing the worst mass murderer the universe has ever known). He knows the following year will go smoothly, because of course it will: there’s absolutely no reason it wouldn’t. No egos, no prophecies, just a people happy to still be alive and to have found somewhere new to call home.

It’s so profoundly sad, that that’s all it takes to find some form of contentment now. Thor hates it.

The sky above is clear, the stars dotting the canvas almost as his father had upon passing. It’s cold. He heads back inside, both knowing they will get through this and wondering how in the hell he’s supposed to help them get through this.

The answer, though, turns out to be found easily enough: through work. Odin’s place of death is not to be touched - it’s a nice area on its own anyway, why change it with development when they’ll probably want green spaces on their land - but constructing a mess and meeting hall right nearby only makes sense. Get the big one out of the way first and expand from there. It helps that Thor is still so physically capable and so unwilling to focus on anything else, practically a one-man work crew in addition to all of the other resources at their disposal.

It’s when their main hall is mostly completed - not quite yet, refinements and finesse and new world practicalities required, but still, it’s structurally sound and other buildings have begun being built around it - that Valkyrie orders a night off for everyone, a moment to celebrate, to rejoice in being alive and honour all those who helped them get to this point, in addition to those who couldn’t make it.

A feast is prepared, and it feels like the Asgard Thor grew up in. Smaller, but the party rivals that what he once knew; never say his people can’t have a good time. There’s mead aplenty, and for the first time in what’s surely been ages Thor takes the chance to indulge himself. He leads many a toast, and things continue far into the night.

That’s how Thor finds himself sitting atop the table at one point, regaling in story after story after story to those willing to gather around (which, to be fair, is quite a few). He tells the story of his second time on Midgard, when he fought with and befriended the men known as Iron Man and Captain America before joining their ranks.

“And you were there!” he suddenly exclaims, pointing at Bruce, who’s been quietly nursing one of several beers off to the side. The sudden acknowledgement makes him sputter, a bit of drink going down the wrong pipe.

“Him?” someone from the crowd asks. Bruce coughs.

“Yes, him!” Thor yells joyfully, fully swept up in giddiness and inebriation. “He is a most formidable warrior. He even almost bested me when we competed once.”

“I _did_ best you,” Bruce says. “A couple of times. Punched you through a wall for no reason, won our big fight…”

“He cheated,” Thor says, turning his attention away from Bruce. “I was fighting with one hand tied behind my back. Or rather, a slave disk embedded in my neck. Same thing, basically. But no! He’s one of Midgard’s most formidable warriors. As am I, I suppose, even before all of this.” And with that he launches back into his retelling of the Battle of New York, of how popular he had become on Midgard in the aftermath, of how it’s a wondrous, beautiful land with so many great people, as they’re all becoming increasingly familiar with the humans who have gone out of their way to help them.

Thor isn’t even exaggerating all that much, Bruce muses. He’s felt kind of useless watching him at work, knowing he technically should be capable of the same physical labour but not like this he isn’t, and it’s all quiet upstairs. Instead he’s been left to focus on the things only just now getting started: the wiring, electricity, heat. They still don’t have any of that yet, but it’s the summer months; it’s warm enough on its own and with no light pollution the skies above give them plenty to work with whenever they have cause to be awake so late, like tonight.

It’s quaint, really. It’s peaceful. It’s busy but it’s also so far removed from everything he’d known growing up in various American cities, and especially New York. He loves it.

He sees the joy from Thor, too, though that he’s less sure of. Socialization has been rare for him as of late, and Bruce gets it: there’s a lot to do, and he isn’t that big of a priority. He volunteered to journey to New Asgard on his own, after all, and that should have been without expectations. But he and Valkyrie have shared too many looks during time of construction: not just when Thor refuses to stop working, but when he barely converses at mealtimes and only acts as a rubber stamp during planning meetings.

But here and now, Thor’s grin is wide, all his teeth showing, natural eye bright but not quite alert due to the alcohol. It’s a total 180. It’s borderline manic. Bruce has seen Thor really party, though, and this also isn’t it - so he has no clue what to make of it.

Valkyrie has already retired at this stage, so he doesn’t have anyone he’s really close enough with to ask. Korg is too jovial in even the worst of circumstances, and he doesn’t know any Asgardians well enough to question them if they think their king is currently mentally sound.

He isn’t like he was when he killed Thanos, though. The joy is genuine, and Bruce can see the respect he has for this land they’ve been offered. It’s a confusing in-between.

Bruce shakes off his revere and goes to get another beer, not ready to go to bed yet himself, though he isn’t that into the festivities. He just likes being around people being happy, he figures, even if he’s only on the outskirts of it. He only realizes as he returns that the mood has somewhat shifted, the crowd smaller, the candles and lanterns lighting their hall on their last legs, everyone gathered near the elevated table Thor remains perched on.

“Tell us how you executed the bastard!” someone yells out from the crowd, and Bruce settles in on a chair with moderate intrigue, wondering just how much Thor is going to leave in.

The answer, it seems, would be most of it.

Thor is still happy, taking on the new story with the same zest he’d described his previous conquests. “We located him, the Avengers and myself,” he says, “so we decided to pay him a visit.”

A mixture of cheers and boos answer him from the crowd. Thor smiles even wider at that, his features turning slightly more animalistic, bloodlust seeping into his expression. Bruce absentmindedly recognizes that face on himself. “When we found him, he was nothing: a mere coward, hiding his days out, pretending to be a farmer, pretending as though he had a right to life.” More loud, emotional reactions, and Thor basks. “The stones were gone, eliminated,” he continues, “and so…”

And Thor’s voice loses itself for a moment.

The crowd doesn’t quite catch the hesitation, but Bruce does. He sees the blank look cross Thor’s face, a lost, unfocused gaze he doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him, and he’s seen him through a lot.

“… seeing as he had nothing of value to provide - never had, never would be able to - I went for his head,” Thor growls, momentum regained, homicidal pride boosting his voice. “I did not give him the chance to finish his sentence. He deserved nothing more than death. I promised him death, and I delivered it to him.”

The crowd cheers once again, mugs slamming against one another and various toasts to their king being called for. A toast to their saviour, a toast to the executioner, a toast to all of Asgard and all he could and would do for it. 

Bruce downs his drink and takes that as his cue to finally depart for the night. He’s going to have a lot to do in the morning, anyway; he’s hoping to be able to have a successful test of the hall’s electrical connections before the next sunset.

It’s only when the sun’s first rays start making themselves known that Thor finally decides to call it a night, encouraging the last of the stragglers with him to do the same. No chores set in stone for the coming day; everyone should be dealt as much recovery time as they need, as far as he’s concerned. They’ve all more than earned the privilege of sleeping in; those ready to face this particular new day can pick up the slack.

He makes his way up a hill, towards the spot where his own abode remains under construction, open and exposed but enough for him to at least sleep, bathe, eat, and quietly attempt to plan his people’s futures in. They’re at least approaching the stage now in which single family dwellings are well on their way, though not as far along as their meeting hall is, but it’s something, and he doesn’t have to feel guilty about it.

Not that he’s going to let that stop him.

Past battles were always fun to recount over a feast, he remembers. A toast to those dining in Valhalla - which he is not a part of. Which he should be a part of. He buried an axe in a chest and stood there in the aftermath to tell the tale while those who may very well have had their priorities in order perished, himself among the half allowed to continue existing, as clear a mockery as there ever was.

_Allowed,_ because he was always at the Mad Titan’s mercy, always subject to what his whims were to be. He recalls the others’ experiences in battle. If Stark had his power he would have killed Thanos before he’d had a chance to so much as raise his hand. The same is true for Rogers. He took his time and he forced so many others to pay for it.

The Battle of New York was fun. Not at the time, not having to collect his brother and be the primary force holding off an alien invasion, but its recounting was an important part of Midgard history he got to be a part of, a hero to be celebrated. Due to it he got to explain what a selfie was to his people. Not that he needed the popularity - but it was nice! And being recognized as a world hero on this planet, one that had never seen the likes of him before, hadn’t even known he was royalty at the beginning? Incredible. The kind of battle one could gladly salute to, especially as all of his closest companions had done an outstanding job, a camaraderie he had only previously felt with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three (at least before the latter’s passing that he couldn’t even be present for or properly avenge). New warriors on a new planet, new bonds formed in a new victory won, complete with (small) feast after.

It’s a good story, he figures. One of his new favourites, especially as Asgard hadn’t heard too much of it before, unlike the other battles from his youth. It lends itself well to boastful, celebratory nights.

But he’d frozen up when asked to recount his latest fight, realizing mid-sentence that it was completely different from every other battle he could have possibly recalled to toasts and cheers.

Because it wasn’t a battle.

Literally all he’d done was decapitate someone who was no longer a threat to anybody. 

Thanos had made that very clear: he’d gone out of his way to ensure he wouldn’t be able to harm anyone else. He was just a defenceless farmer minding his own business, horrific crimes committed weeks earlier aside. They’d all been angry, sure, but he’d simply acted on impulse, cutting off his head mid-sentence to his daughter.

It had accomplished nothing. He hadn’t even felt good doing it.

Thor realizes he hasn’t really felt anything since.

There was the relief at realizing his people still alive, the anxiety over what their future would be, the optimism that they would have a home here. But it was all muted in the background, as he’d done nothing but wade through a fog: a fog comprised of his own people when they returned; a fog comprised of the bodies he did his best to pay final respects to; a fog comprised of the expectations of other world leaders whose favours he had to win; a fog encapsulating him in his final violent act and refusing to let him go, keeping him permanently trapped in the moment in which he swung Stormbreaker down on some guy’s head over and over and over, the battle long lost, the punishment too late and meaningless.

Thor knows it was the right thing to do. He _knows_. Thanos had to die and he was more than glad to have been the one to have executed it. Considering the severely reduced state of Asgard, he figures he had just about as much right as anybody else to be the one to have done the deed.

But it wasn’t in battle. There was no glory to be had. There was no victory. It was a chore.

He cut off someone’s head and nothing changed. It had been a quiet moment and it had stayed one after.

Thor buries his head in his hands, the fog consuming him, knowing he has no right to lead anybody - let alone the last of his people - when the best he can do is a violent impulse weeks too late that ultimately helped nobody and brought nobody to justice. It was an action of his pre-Midgard youth: swing a stick first and ask questions later, the exact behaviour that his father saw right through and led him to exile. All he’d done was regress.

Thor lifts his head, bleary-eyed, and stares blankly out at the rising sun. New Asgard is asleep. He would like to join them.

He knows he does not have that luxury and the best he can do is throw himself even more into the work that must be done. It’s all he’s fit to do - and all he should be entrusted with.

To ascribe him any further importance would be to pledge allegiance to a violent coward.

It isn’t even reassuring to come to terms with himself.

* * *

It’s peaceful.

It’s so peaceful, it takes Bruce a long time to recognize he’s isolating himself.

This is what life should be, he thinks initially. You get up with the sun. You head into what’s becoming a town to help people with the skillset you’ve acquired through life. Nobody is after you. Nobody is trying to kidnap or kill you. You don’t have to watch your back constantly. You exist without worry, you go to sleep the same, and you wake up the next day and do it all over again.

It almost reminds Bruce of segments of his childhood - almost. The summer days when he was living with his aunt and his father’s spectre didn’t dominate his consciousness, and he didn’t have to worry about getting shit from his peers. The very rare times growing up he could just exist and do whatever he wanted.

He wants to help people. There’s possibly nobody more in need than the Asgardians, and he has a couple of ins with them, the strong favour of their highest ranking leaders. This is where he can do the most good, so that’s where Bruce goes, that’s what he does.

Not that they were ever the stay-in-constant-contact types, but the calls back to Tony have gradually died off. Tony made it more than clear he was done with the entire Avengers thing. Bruce had considered calling him out after suffering just one loss - like he hadn’t been handed loss after loss after loss before joining them, and even then - but he knows Pepper, too. It’s not worth it. If someone wants to actually go live their life, who is he to stop them? So he hopped overseas and they sporadically keep in touch, but they have little in common nowadays, Tony soon to become a father (if he hasn’t already; Bruce wouldn’t know) and Bruce… Bruce…

He couldn’t really pinpoint what it is he’s doing, exactly, just knows that’s not in the cards for him. An interpersonal life like that will never happen.

So they’re still friends, but in completely different places, busy, and they let the contact die its natural death.

But Bruce doesn’t even notice because it’s so peaceful.

He partakes in the weekly meetings that soon turn to twice a week as things come to form, alongside Thor and Valkyrie and a couple of other Asgardians who have existed on his peripheral for some time now but he doesn’t know all that directly. He’s fought alongside Thor and Valkyrie for literal years, so he knows them, but they don’t really spend time together either, Bruce slowly realizes.

It makes sense, though. They’re busy rebuilding a town of refugees. For as much as he’s suffered along the way, they’ve dealt with so much worse. And he’s only here to help, not lead. He’s an advisor at best. Because Thor was right, earlier: these aren’t his people.

And that’s fine. Bruce knew that going in. And it’s so peaceful, he doesn’t really have anything to worry about. He just nods at familiar faces as he passes them on the streets that have taken form, goes over schematics and plans with those he’s either working with or teaching, gets an easy three meals a day and goes home to a roof over his head and a heating system installed and it’s so. Fucking. Peaceful.

He isn’t happy. Why isn’t he happy? This was supposed to be everything he ever wanted. He could have done without the mass murder months upon months before, but there’s nothing to do about that now but try to make the best of a bad situation. He’s done exactly that. He’s been good. He’s done so much good. He’s busy and his brain is cooperating and he wants for absolutely nothing and his biggest worries are problems he knows he can solve, another wiring issue or securing another generator or just telling the Asgardians what they can expect from certain parts of Earth. He is living the dream.

Bruce and Valkyrie have stopped talking. It’s just another one of those things that happens. They’d had nightly talks in the early stages: the leader of a group of refugees through the absolute worst of the worst and the native inhabitant of the planet they were settling on coming together. Not to mention their awkward friendship, a need to re-explore that with Bruce in charge, not the Hulk. They’d covered all of the ground they possibly could: practical complications; cultural barriers; training him to fight as him, not as the Hulk or the Hulkbuster. It had been a way to close out the days, to plan for the next ones, to feel some warmth and retain a strong connection as so many had to be rebuilt.

But that need had died off, nightly going to every other night to every other week to not at all. But it makes sense. Bruce is busy seeing to the nitty gritty nobody else here really can, and Valkyrie is basically second in command of an entire people while recovering from near starvation and a life of poor coping mechanisms on Sakaar. She doesn’t have time for him, not when she has to look after both herself and several hundred people trying to find their ways in their new existence.

So he lets that connection fall off, because to do anything more would be selfish.

Thor doesn’t really talk to anybody.

Bruce gets that too, though. There’s a lot that has to be done, and Thor has thrown himself headfirst into all of the hard labour. He’s not only the most physically capable, but their leader as well; it’s what he has to do. He came to that conclusion a while back, his and Valkyrie’s shared concern over his mental state falling by the wayside just as everything else has; after all, Thor is getting things done, so things must be going well enough on at least some level. And if taking up any more of Valkyrie’s time would be selfish on Bruce’s end, then trying to encroach on Thor’s would be a whole new level. If he wants to take a breather, he will; if not, it’s really not Bruce’s right to inject himself.

He is, after all, the outsider here. The other human volunteers come and go, rotating in and out of Asgard and back into their regular lives. Bruce doesn’t have that option, no regular life to go back to, so he stays and before he knows it finds his days comprised entirely of work and a shack that houses nobody but himself.

And his mind starts to wander: Asgard has a lot of help. They have the biggest sob story, they have all of the attention. The UN seems happy with how things are progressing. There’s no danger to them having to move or be a lost people again.

But before all of this, before the Avengers, before the Hulk became a regular nuisance in his life again, he was still trying to help people. And he doesn’t know what those parts of the world look like anymore.

Bruce can still fit everything he could possibly lay a claim to in one backpack.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, shouldering it and stepping out into the dusk.


	3. Year Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I know! And each chapter can be one year. That way things definitely won't end up being really, really long," she thought.

Surveying the land from above, idyllic is the first word that comes to Steve’s mind.

He’s looking at a sleepy coastal town. One with specks moving about: mostly Asgardians, some humans. The land is moderately developed, now, but he imagines it will grow: beyond small roads interlocking small buildings, and expand into something a little… more.

A proper city-state, as it were, since that’s what New Asgard is on the verge of becoming.

He gets the chance to breathe in the ocean air on his walk into the main town. It’s different from his excursions by the Atlantic on the American coast: a little cleaner and significantly quieter. The rest of the world is starting over, but not from scratch; here, an entirely new state of existence has popped up within the past year.

It’s his first visit overseas. There simply hadn’t been time before; not past getting his legal troubles sorted out (he and Nat had agreed it just didn’t seem worth it to not do things above the book anymore, especially not with Sam and Bucky being… He’d lost Bucky before, he thought he could revert back to that mindset, but then Sam had helped him out of that and he’d never lost Sam before and it can’t have been an entire year without…) and just trying to navigate life in a new Brooklyn. An abandoned Brooklyn. He didn’t have all this technology growing up, but there were always people, and there are still some now, but it’s been a year and he still can’t quite figure out what his purpose is among a decimated populace when his very existence is still, in part, a symbol of hope.

So he’s kind of put things off, but the impending announcement of New Asgard’s sovereignty is as good an excuse he’ll ever get to visit an old friend.

He’s in the town square before he knows it, and only then realizes he actually has no idea where it is he should go.

So he sits on a bench, looking past a statue of who he can only assume to be Odin, past the largest building, and catches glimpses of the sun reflecting off of the ocean.

Steve gets odd looks as townspeople pass by going about their business, a stranger in a location small enough that everybody knows just about everybody. And unlike in the States, in New Asgard, he isn’t really anybody. It’s kind of nice, to have all of that pressure taken off of him when he still doesn’t have any answers.

One year, though, and something entirely new has grown. Steve looks around him, behind him, not really moving but absorbing everything he can. None of this existed before. Even if what happened hadn’t, it was still going to have to come to fruition; Thor’s people were kind of screwed no matter what. New Asgard is like the one small plant against all odds growing in the midst of the apocalyptic wasteland that is the universe: that it exists at all is a miracle, but it’s beautiful.

He’s hoping if there’s anything he can take back home from this, it’s inspiration: people can still survive and grow and thrive. The circumstances seem near impossible, but at least one group in the universe has done it. More can, too.

Shit, Sam was better at this stuff than he was. He was actually trained for it. When he gets back home Steve figures he can start looking into that.

The sun rises higher in the sky. Steve tries to check his phone; he gets his confirmation that it’s late morning - he hadn’t meant to arrive this early but he couldn’t sleep and basically had his own private charter at his disposal to fly over, so - but that’s about it, unable to connect to the internet, double check the time he and Thor agreed to actually meet.

But that just gives Steve a little more time to himself, he figures. He stands up and follows the small crowd that’s begun to enter the main building before him.

He quickly realizes it’s a gathering hall, and one for any occasion, apparently, as evidenced by what looks like the beginning of a pretty standard lunch setup. Steve keeps to himself as he eats, admiring the figures carved into the wood that helps make up the building’s structure, assuming they’re some part of Asgard’s history, but Thor never really went into that much detail before so he wouldn’t be able to say for certain.

Meals are not a communal affair, or at least this one isn’t; the hall can fit a great deal many more people than are in it. Steve thanks the staff as he leaves and decides to meander about the centre of town to kill time, peruse the local shops, maybe contribute a little more to the economy.

It’s after he’s bought a small canvas painting - and he really should get back into art, maybe even take an extended stay to sketch, the land is gorgeous and he wonders if New Asgard has a drawing group or something - he feels a hand on his shoulder. Steve turns around and smiles when he sees Thor, taking his hand in greeting before they both pull one another in for a hug.

“Hey,” Steve says first. “Sorry, I couldn’t remember what time—“ he absentmindedly waves his presently useless phone for a second, as if that explains things.

Apparently it does, because Thor just nods. “Ah,” he says, “yes, the connection here is spotty. We’ve been trying to work on it but sometimes it just goes out.”

“Yeah, that happens to us in New York, too,” Steve says. “Might just be one of those things we all have to wait for someone smarter than us to figure out.” 

“Well,” Thor says, “I believe we were supposed to meet later, but I heard rumours about someone new in town and figured I’d come down early.”

“Oh,” Steve says, “I’m not taking you away from anything, am I?”

Thor shakes his head. “Nothing important. Besides, it’s only right to spend more time with an old friend when given the chance.”

Steve thinks back on the old friend he’d completely missed being able to spend any decent amount of time with since before he shipped off for World War II. “Yeah,” he says. He’s not getting that back. “So,” he continues, setting one foot in front of the other, the two of them beginning a meandering, aimless walk, “growing your hair back out?”

Thor brings a hand up to his head, fiddling with a shortish blond lock. “Trying to, yes. Seems only right. Just feels extra weird lately with my head so exposed. And nothing good came out of my having shorter hair, so…” he trails off, wrist rotating awkwardly, like he’s just brought up the ultimate downer and completely regrets it.

Steve can sympathize; even a year later, it seems impossible to actually talk about anything else. All conversations lead back to that one moment. He has no idea how they’re supposed to live in this world.

Back to positives. “New Asgard looks good,” Steve says. 

Thor starts at that, like he’s been jolted out of a revere. “Oh?” he asks. “Thank you. Though there’s still much to be done, and we’ll never recover what was lost.”

“But you’ve built a lot,” Steve says. “That’s what you have to focus on. What’s here now. I watched the fishermen work from the docks; I saw the flocks of sheep grazing as I came into town. There’s a lot here - none of us are ever getting back what’s gone, so we need to keep looking ahead.”

Thor freezes where he stands. It takes Steve a step or two to realize he’s fallen behind and he stops with him, turns back around. “Thor?” he asks.

It takes Thor a second to come back to him. Steve notes the absentmindedness - no, that’s not the right word - and frowns. “Thor? Are you okay?”

Thor opens his mouth a fraction, closes it, opens it again. He blinks, and then his eyes centre on Steve. Steve finds himself unnerved by it - not by the intense heterochromia Thor now sports due to his prosthetic, but by just how empty the look is, like there’s something there he’ll never be able to get back, no amount of positive thinking ever able to take its place.

Then, “I am well.” 

Steve furrows his brow. “With all due respect, Thor, I don’t think you are.”

Thor looks away at that, bites his lip as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “No, I am not,” he concedes. “May we retreat somewhere more private? My own home?”

Steve just nods at that and lets Thor lead the way. They go up a hill, to one of the highest points in New Asgard - which, comparatively, isn’t terribly high, but it’s still a substantial vantage point. The home they enter is modest, small, bare bones furnishing. Stormbreaker lies neglected in a corner, Steve notes, gathering dust. If he looks a little closer he can still see it stained with small remnants of blood, a cleaning job not properly done.

Steve swallows.

“Do you need anything?” Thor is asking, bringing Steve back to the present, not the day he suffered his worst failure. “Water, or… I suppose that’s all I have to offer, but it’s quite fresh…”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Thanks.” He forces his gaze away from Stormbreaker before Thor turns back to look at him.

Thor gives him a quizzical look for a second, like he knew what Steve was doing but couldn’t confirm it, before he moves to flop backwards on his couch. It looks too small for him. It’ll almost certainly be too small for the both of them together. 

Steve sits down next to Thor, drawing himself in, allowing for some semblance of room.

“So what’s wrong?” Steve asks.

Thor laughs. “What isn’t?”

“Thor,” Steve says.

“Steven Grant,” Thor replies, mocking.

“Specifically, right now, in this moment, when you stopped responding and looked like there was nothing left in you.”

Thor sighs. “Stress, I suppose.”

This goes well beyond stress, Steve can tell, but he figures it won’t exactly do any good to point that out. Instead he sits there silently, patiently, waiting for Thor to open up. It eventually works, Thor fidgeting before he finds the words again.

“New Asgard’s impending sovereignty,” he finally says.

Steve nods. “It’s a big accomplishment,” he says.

“It’s a lot of responsibility,” Thor replies. 

“That too. But you knew that going in. You’ve had a lot of responsibility for some time now, haven’t you? And look at how well everything’s been going. You have a people. You have a town. You’ll have your own city-state. It’s phenomenal. Not many could pull this off, but you did.”

Thor sits up straighter at that. “Did I, though?” he asks, fixing Steve with a look. It’s focused, at least, Thor actually present in this moment. “Did I pull it off? Because it took a lot more than just me. Valkyrie did most of the work, really. The people here, who lived a month in space on no supplies and saw their friends and family die all around them, they did the work. What have I done but lumber around like a fool? I sat there and wallowed and waited for three weeks in relative comfort while everyone else struggled to survive. What sort of leader does that?”

“One who’s just like anybody else,” Steve says. “You’re special, yeah. So am I. But that doesn’t mean everything has to fall on our shoulders - it’s not realistic for any one person to take all of that weight on themselves.” His mind blinks back to Tony, how he eventually completely quit. He meant it, too, if the past year is anything to go by. “You don’t have to sell yourself short just because others had it worse than you did or helped out, too. It’s not a competition.”

“Mm,” Thor hums. “I suppose not. Even if it were, the dead would have won, wouldn’t they?” At Steve’s silence, Thor claps him on the back. “It was a joke, Rogers. Laugh.”

“Ah,” Steve says, straightening his posture after Thor’s little blow. “Ha. Haha.” It’s kind of funny, his muted laughter reflecting some degree of genuine amusement, but he’s not sure indulging in gallows humour is the correct path. “But seriously, Thor - it’s probably good, to some degree, that you’re feeling this way. Not that you are, but it means you haven’t lost yourself. You’re still on the same plane as your people. I’ve seen men so corrupted by power they’ve stopped even considering the lives of those working under them worth anything. You aren’t like that.”

Thor seems to wake up a little at that, shifting, leaning forward. He rests his chin on his hands. “My sister was like that,” he says. “Filled with a genocidal lust who would stop at nothing, at nobody, for what she perceived as her birthright for all the universe to kneel before her. I remember the stories my people told, of what life was like under her, her terrorizing the population for no reason. I could never be like her.”

Steve nods. Thor’s gaze shifts to him at the movement. “There. See? You’re good at this. Circumstances be damned, everyone here is happy. They have nothing to fear. They have a new permanent home, and a leader who not only cares for them and empathizes with them but sits with them, eats with them, because he knows he’s no better than them. That’s rare, you know that, right? I know that since…” Steve’s voice trails off, still not really wanting to put it into words. Still not comfortable with it. He was there. He had the gauntlet in his hands. He was _there_. “Well, it’s seemed like an impossible situation for everybody. But you have done genuine good. A lot of it. Maybe even more than most people. So please don’t forget that.”

Thor’s gaze shifts away from Steve, towards Stormbreaker for half a second, absentminded. Then he sits back up and suddenly envelopes Steve in a hug. Steve’s pretty sure if it weren’t for the serum he’d have been physically crushed, but as it stands, it’s just a very tight embrace. “Thank you,” Thor finally exhales above his shoulder, his breath tickling at Steve’s neck. His growing hair brushes against his face as he pulls back, hands on Steve’s shoulders, giving him an actually meaningful, focused look now. “You have a way with words few do. I did not even know I needed to hear such things.”

Steve blinks, taken aback for a second. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m… I think I’m going to try to see about helping other people. You know. Anyone and everyone who’s struggling. So, if things stay bad, you know, call me. Or I can call you.”

“Yeah,” Thor says. Then, before Steve has a chance to respond, “Actually, while you’re here, is it okay if I run some other worries I have by you? I have quite a few.”

“Of course,” Steve says, settling back in. “Anything to help a friend.”

Thor smiles for a second, but that’s about it before he launches into his concerns. “So New Asgard is to become its own city-state, which is great, that’s basically what we were before, except the city was an entire planet. That gives me real political power here though, which I’ve only really had in name only for the past year. And I do not know what to do with it. I’m terrible at it. I fear only I will be accepted as ruler - both among my people as we have so few traditions we can hold on to now and, you know, the whole god of thunder thing - and among the United Nations since I’m the Asgardian they know best and I’ve represented my people on their stage already and, you know, the whole god of thunder thing. So I cannot pass the position on to someone else, and delegating would only do so much. And the last time I made an executive decision I had to completely destroy Asgard, the planet. And then I could not defend my people against, against, you fucking know. So my time as ruler with real power has gone _exceptionally_ poorly. And I do not know how or if this time could possibly be any different. I don’t want this and I am scared.”

Steve has to take a moment to gather his thoughts, sitting back as he lets all of Thor’s words really digest. Then, finally, he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve reaches for the back of his neck, rubbing at its nape as he figures out his next words. “I hear you, and I understand why you’re worried, and I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do. Nobody should. That’s… It’s a lot you had to go through all at once, probably more than just about anybody will ever have to. It’s something none of us will ever be able to relate to so I think it’s important to emphasize to you that everything you’re feeling you have every right to. And it makes sense, in a way.

“But you also have to remember that those were extraordinary circumstances, and those don’t exist anymore. Nobody is trying to take anybody over. If there were going to be any further threats or crises they would’ve arisen by now, when everything was still in a state of chaos. They haven’t. Instead, everything is calm—“ It’s unnerving, when was the last time things were this calm for so long, but they _are_ and he can’t look a gift horse in the mouth— “and this is probably life now. The fantastical threats are gone. The ones that remain, if there even are any, will seem like nothing compared to what we’ve been through. It’s all manageable. Everything that’s left to face us - we can manage.”

Thor’s hands are clasped over one another as he watches Steve, waits for him to finish. “Okay,” Thor says when he has, “I understand what you’re saying, but I cannot handle any of the sorts of problems that may arise. We become sovereign, so we have that much more control over what we do, but also become that much more dependent on the norms and laws of Midgard to do it. I do not, for example, know how to negotiate a trade deal. What is the procedure should a Midgardian wish to live in New Asgard - or should an Asgardian wish to reside elsewhere on Midgard? Steve, I have only ever been a warrior, never a diplomat. We need to coexist and cooperate on an equal playing field with hundreds of other nations and I do not know _how_.”

“Then you find people who do,” Steve says. “Remember: it’s not all on you. Maybe it was before, but it doesn’t have to be now. Every other nation here has people who help their ruler. And if you need help with the Earth aspects of things, well, you have us.”

“Us?” Thor asks.

“Natasha and I,” Steve clarifies. “We’re working on something, you know. A security council of sorts. Rhodey and Okoye are on board. We’re trying to talk to Nebula and Carol and Rocket, too, go beyond Earth a little. We’d love to have you on board, too.”

Thor hums. “I appreciate the gesture. And I would love to be able to come to you should Ihave any questions - and I’m sure I will have many - about how to proceed as new Midgard matters come up. But I do not know if I can commit my services to another entity at this time - not when we are in such a period of transition, when we are so few, when my focus needs to be on this part of the world, not everywhere else. That’s how I operated before and that’s how everything began to fall apart.”

Steve nods. “That’s fair. Just remember we’re here for you. You don’t have to do any of this alone, and you know we’ll always help, no questions asked.” He pauses for a moment. “With both international affairs - and with how you’re doing. Remember,” and his voice grows a little softer, “I was there, too.”

Thor blinks. Shuts his eyes. “Yeah.”

But Steve wasn’t the one who had the kill shot.

They take some moments - hours, for all they’re really tracking of time - to recompose themselves. Steve has to keep reminding himself things will get better, are getting better, because the more he looks back on the past the more difficult it is to see that future. He glances over at Stormbreaker again. What’s done is done.

And things are a little better after those moments. Thor gives him a proper tour of New Asgard, covering much of the land; he learns the spot he had lunch was the first building they ever constructed. They go to have a late dinner there, sun already low on the horizon. Steve is vaguely aware of the fact he hasn’t slept in over a day, and this has been an emotionally draining one.

“So,” Steve starts, looking up at the halls, “you mentioned gold in Asgard before - do you think you’ll bring any of that here?”

Thor immediately shakes his head. “No. I’d never thought of it growing up, but that was acquired through genocide. It’s a legacy I would rather we not recreate here in our fresh start. Much better to make do with what we have and stay humble. What did we have to celebrate then? Why would we now?”

Steve thinks back on his own country’s history. “It’s beautiful, what you have here,” he says. “I wouldn’t change it.”

Thor smiles at that, small, but probably the most genuine expression of happiness Steve has seen from him all day. 

When they leave, it’s dark out, soft lights emanating from residential areas but not much else. Steve looks up at the sky, seeing the multitude of stars above as his eyes adjust. Thor looks over at him, then up as well, leaning back against a wall as he does so.

“So?” Thor asks. “What else do you believe we can bring to New Asgard?”

Steve blinks in surprise from the sudden question. “I’m not sure,” he says, “I’ll have to think on that and get back to you. But I want to do that. Get back to you, I mean. It’s been far too long since we’ve talked.”

“It has,” Thor nods.

A thought crosses Steve’s mind. “Is Bruce here?” he asks. “I just realized I haven’t seen him all day.”

Thor hesitates. “He is not,” he finally says.

“Where is he?”

“I do not know. He left some time ago.”

Steve tears his gaze from the skies, looks back at Thor, who’s still looking upwards, arms loosely folded across his chest, wall still bearing the brunt of his weight. “Did he tell you he was going?”

“He did not. Have you not heard from him?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I— no. I thought he was here. When he came over with you, before he left, it sounded like that was the only thing on his mind. What happened?”

Thor shrugs. “He decided to do what he needed to do,” he says. “Our interests diverged, as they tend to. He helped us build. We did that. We saw less of each other. And then he left - I presume he simply has a wanderer’s soul and staying here did not feel right to him. I feel a certain kinship with that, but unlike him, I have additional responsibilities.

“We talked about this; actually, we fought about it. I have a people and he does not.”

Steve shakes his head. “He has a people. Us.”

“He spent two years fighting on an alien planet,” Thor says. “He was lost when I found him. Perhaps he still is, especially with all that’s happened.”

Steve hears a faint rumbling overhead; he looks up to see clouds faintly drifting in, obscuring some of the stars. He moves to extend a hand to Thor, then pull him in for a hug, as they had before. Thor reciprocates, and they take a longer moment to stay in one another’s embrace before pulling apart.

“It was good to see you again,” Steve says. “Please let me know if you hear from Bruce.”

“I will,” Thor says.

“We’ll stay in touch,” Steve affirms.

“We will,” Thor says with certainty.

* * *

One foot in front of the other.

It’s a mantra he’s lived his whole life, why stop now?

One foot in front of the other, far too young to be able to do that. One foot in front of the other, a way to find a place to hide. One foot in front of the other, following Mom. Mom’s gone, one foot in front of the other. Find Dad, one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other, Dad’s gone.

Meet the Hulk. Pause.

One foot in front of the other.

It’s an activity that gives Bruce a desperately needed peace of mind. Sometimes he hitches a ride, but it’s mostly just walking as he steadily makes his way south, through Sweden, island hopping through Denmark, through Germany and veering off on a southeastern trek. He doesn’t have an ideal destination in mind, more of a vague inclination to visit old haunts, a return to a time of zero personal connections, the way it always should have been.

He doesn’t have a map on him and isn’t inclined to obtain one. It’s maybe foolish, but Bruce figures there’s nothing that can really hurt him, anyway; it doesn’t matter. So little actually seems to.

It does go through his mind: he’s depressed. But that’s hardly a new diagnosis. That’s more of a constant comfort, something to offset the ever-persistent rage he keeps burning in the back of his throat, just short of screaming.

Not that he was ever the pinnacle of mental health before world-ending events happened, but they certainly haven’t helped.

Bruce waffles between passing through populated areas and not. At least initially along his route, people seem well off (there’s a reason this part of the world was okay with accepting a couple thousand alien refugees). Populated areas are the least likely to need help. They’re also the more likely to recognize him, and he doesn’t want to be around that.

But less populated areas are just… not really populated. At all. He runs into the odd groups here and there, and when they should meet each other with wariness, there’s this sinking feeling of relief instead: somebody I don’t know survived. There are still more people out there. People survived.

Bruce fucking hates that feeling. Shoves it down as he repairs the cart of a small family trying to make their way to a city. They don’t have a language in common, something he can tell he’s going to experience a lot of until he gets back to somewhere he’d been at least a decade ago, but they need an extra pair of able-bodied hands and this is what he left New Asgard for, to help those nobody way paying any attention to.

He gives a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he refuses a coin the woman is offering him. “No, thank you,” he says, shaking his head. She frowns and takes one of his arms, holding it out, palm facing upwards and flat, and deposits the coin before forcing his fingers to curl over it. Says something he doesn’t understand, but her gaze is heavy and though they look absolutely nothing alike, though the situation isn’t remotely similar in the slightest, Bruce blinks and sees his mom instead of her. Blinks again and nods slowly, expression falling from his face, arm falling limply to his side, coin still in his fist, and they part ways.

He doesn’t even fucking know what currency this is, where he’d even use it. Her family had more use for it than he ever will. He pockets it. Bruce knows that family is only about three days away from somewhere populated - he’d just narrowly avoided the area himself.

He was going to go into the city. He was halfway through some suburb when he promptly turned around and decided to circle further out. He has no idea what’s wrong with him.

The next day, Bruce abandons his shoes at the roadside. They’re worn from all the walking to the point they’re basically useless. He doesn’t have any replacements.

He feels like a hobbit, small and walking around barefoot. He ignores how his feet burn as he walks on asphalt, how dirty they get when it just matches the rest of him. He swears softly when he steps on a sharp piece of rock but before, when he cared so much about not getting any of his radioactive blood anywhere, it’s just— Well, what’s the point?

Bruce actually goes into the next town he sees. Bathes courtesy of the bathroom sink of some barely-used gas station. The coin he has is useless, and it’s just one coin, so he waits until it’s dark and just steals some new shoes and climate-appropriate clothes, weather getting hotter and he not properly accustomed for it.

If he’s going to help the few people he finds, it’s probably in his best interests to at least look presentable and not like someone who’s going to rob them or kill them in their sleep.

… He just stole. He has killed people. Shit. Whatever.

Bruce comes across a distraught boy alone on a path. They don’t speak the same language, but that’s nothing new. He manages to convince the kid, through soft tones and outstretched arms, like he’s the one begging, to show him what’s wrong. He leads him to what looks like an abandoned hospital, except it’s not - there are a handful of patients and no staff. 

The boy takes him to a room first, one with a small woman in it. He leads him to the bed she’s resting in. It takes them both a second to realize she’s completely still, her chest not rising or falling, eyes staring at nothing. A fly lands on one of them and starts crawling around.

The boy wails, ear-splitting sobs emanating from his not-that-small frame, and Bruce can’t. He fucking. Can’t. He gets out of there, shutting the door behind him and falling back against it. He can hear the kid crying from out here. He reaches towards an arm hanging limply on the ground and gets his head shoved into the sidewalk for his troubles. He has not properly used his voice in weeks and he is not about to start now, taking deep, frantic breaths as he slowly pushes himself back up standing. The kid is fucking losing it behind him.

Bruce makes his way to the second floor. Empty. He goes back down to the first floor. He can still hear the kid screaming. Knocks gently on a different door, the one furthest down the hall. There’s a girl and a father there, girl in the bed and father sitting at her side, holding her hand. Bruce holds up his own to show he means no harm and slowly approaches them. The father eyes him warily, and Bruce sees the threat cross his face. Knows he could snap him literally in half if he wanted to. What the fuck, Bruce. Why are you thinking like that. Fucking stop it. He comes to the other side of the bed and, only when the father gives a brief nod, does he lift the covers.

The girl’s leg is busted; who knows how long she’s been bedridden, but she definitely can’t put any weight on it. Bruce bites his lip as he looks around the room. There’s a set of drawers; he opens them and finds two clean towels. He takes them, looks around a little more, exits to what looked like the reception area on his way in. The boy’s screaming has subsided, but he can still hear him sobbing. Bruce knows from experience his throat has to be completely raw and spent by now. He just wants him to stop.

At the reception area Bruce finds an old cardboard box, untouched and tucked away under a desk. He finds a roll of tape. He makes his way back to the girl and her dad and holds the box up to her leg, measuring it before ripping apart what he needs. The father’s eyes widen at the sudden violent action - that this small man is just effortlessly ripping a box apart right in front of him - and he leans across his daughter, a hand tentatively coming to her other side across her chest. 

Bruce ignores it, relatively satisfied with what he’s got to work with. He takes the other man’s hand and gently removes it, meeting little resistance along the way. Then he looks into the little girl’s eyes - she’s watching him, suspicious but unable to really do anything about it - and says, softly, positive neither can actually understand him, “This might hurt.”

And then he grabs her leg, snapping the bones back in place. She shrieks but he ignores it, laying a towel and the cardboard underneath, taping it up into a makeshift splint, full well knowing she needs better care than this and she’s probably never going to get it.

But at least, you know, he did something. And at least it got through, seeing as how the father isn’t even looking at him anymore, just squeezing his child’s hand and muttering soft assurances to her in the language they speak, stroking her hair with his free hand, and as soon as Bruce is done he leaves.

He makes his way through the other rooms, and at least he can show those healthy with those sick how to disinfect, how to change a bandage, how to change an IV bag when there are maybe only a dozen left. He can feel their eyes watching him the entire time, suspicion across their features as he makes no move to harm them, only help, and he ignores it.

By the time he’s done the sun has gone down and he can’t hear anything from the first boy and his dead mother’s room anymore.

Bruce quietly leaves. He still has that stupid coin in his pocket. He turns it over in his hands as he stares up at the night sky, identifies Merak and Dubhe and from there Polaris, and turns back to the southeast, walking all through the night.

After a day he throws his shoes away, the pair now just as useless as his earlier ones.

When the stars come back out and he’s a full day’s journey from the makeshift hospital he finally screams into the air, his legs buckling under him at the force of it, arms bent and fists clenched and eyes screwed shut as spittle flies from his mouth and he screams, swears giving way to mere sounds with no meaning. When he’s done he sits down, right at the roadside, and tilts his head back, keeping his breathing calm and certain and even as fuck all.

He is so _fucking_ angry.

Bruce gets back up with the sun and continues walking.

By the time he reaches another settlement - a modestly-sized city, by the looks of things from the outskirts - it’s twilight. Typically he’d retreat a little, sleep and then at daybreak do a loop around it, but he’s hungry and his feet hurt, so instead he decides to stay put and wait for darkness to truly fall.

When it does he quietly makes his way into town. When he comes across what looks like a supermarket he takes his jacket, wraps it around his fist, and punches his way in. He minds the glass surrounding his bare feet and calmly makes his way through, taking any food that looks halfway appealing and shoving whatever fits in his bag. He finds they sell shoes and solves another problem. As he’s leaving he sees a stand of cheap flip flops and it’s an easy choice, they’ll be better than nothing when this pair inevitably wears out; he takes a couple of those, too. Bruce is out of the city by daybreak, not stopping to sleep until he reaches a nearby forest with the sun high in the sky.

It’s getting hot enough now that travelling by night is more appealing, so he gradually completes his switch to doing that. It stresses him out - being awake all night and asleep all day, it’s not natural, it’s not what he would do normally - but at the same time it feels much more fitting.

Less chance of running into people, maybe.

Except the desperate ones, and that might be all he really has patience for now.

The worst starts when he catches a fire in the distance, flames licking at the night sky, smoke flooding the air and obscuring the stars. He picks up his pace, nowhere else to go, though he knows it’s going to take too long to reach it - but maybe things will be better off with him there later than not at all.

Because what the fuck is he going to do with victims of a fire that’s been burning who knows how long? Chest compressions?

The smoke thickens and it gets hotter and he can see it’s several houses that have caught fire. There are fire trucks but the wind is working against them, and it’s all they can do to contain things. Bruce looks around at the gathered crowd he’s now a part of, and there aren’t any specific signs of distress - just general concern, the kind when you don’t really know anybody but you’re hoping everyone is okay because you’re still human.

He catches eyes with someone up near the front of the crowd and asks him, “Is anyone still in there?”

He gets a blank stare in return.

But from behind him, he hears someone say a word he does recognize: “Hulk.”

Bruce’s eyes widen slightly, his heartbeat ticking up a notch as he turns around. A man is pointing at him, and more eyes are falling on him, whispers gaining force through the crowd as more and more join in, gazes moving from the fire to him. He hears the word a few more times.

“No,” he says, holding his hands up placatingly, “no, I’m not—“

A rock hits him in the head, jagged edge leaving a small cut at his temple. He blinks in shock, feeling the warm thread of blood dribble down the side of his face a little. He keeps his hands up, raising his voice, falling back on that old, stupid stereotype that maybe people who don’t speak English will suddenly understand you if you’re louder, “I’m not the Hulk—“

Someone yells something at him in return. It picks up steam around the crowd. Bruce risks a glance behind him, at the burning homes; even some of the firefighters are looking back at him curiously. He looks back in front of him just in time to dodge another rock, the yelling getting louder, more and more people joining in. Those directly next to him start to back away.

He doesn’t know what they’re actually saying, but he figures he can understand the idea behind the tone well enough: _Get the fuck out of here._

And he just. Wanted to help. He could have gone into the homes; he wasn’t going to die from smoke inhalation and some burns might have hurt a little but it’s not like they could kill him. He could’ve done what others couldn’t do. It was a long shot, and he would have had to somehow convince emergency personnel he could handle it and he wouldn’t be another problem for them to solve, but it might have saved someone.

But now that opportunity is completely shot - and he has to find a way to get out of here without—

He isn’t sure what. There’s no mental signs of the Hulk right now. There hasn’t been for months on months on months. Even as danger surrounds him all in the Hulk’s name there’s absolutely nothing. It’s just him.

Bruce glances around, trying to figure out his best course of action, and then charges through the crowd, trying to make his way out to the back and get away from them through there. People scream as he rushes them, jumping out of the way. Normally he would hate that he’s scaring people but really, he’s left with no other options: fear is better than anyone getting hurt.

Including himself.

Though he can take it, he’s sure.

But he’d prefer not to.

Bruce explodes through the back of the crowd and slows to a jog to a walk. He turns around and sees people fixated on him, the fire burning at their backs. He knows exactly the look they’re giving him: it’s the look his father gave him growing up, the look some civilians gave him as his identity rose in prominence after the Battle of New York, the look all people gave him after Johannesburg.

And oh, the thought goes through his mind, like a flash: he could charge back into that crowd. He could actually give them something very real to fear. He could justify the rock-throwing, if they really wanted it.

But it’s just a flash. Bruce growls at himself - maybe it’s a little too audible, but the only person it was aimed at was him - and slowly walks backwards, then turns around and breaks out into a run away from them all. Back to the outskirts of the city. Back to the pure wilderness and away from people, always away from people, this was stupid and he never should have done it, always away from people.

He’d been occasionally passing people on the roads at night; a simple nod in greeting always seemed to suffice, except when he saw people struggling with something. But apparently something he’d been previously unaware of has happened, and now when he passes people on the road, they stop and blanche and either stand stock still as though if they don’t move he can’t see them, or they run in any direction but towards him or the way they’re going, dropping their belongings on occasion. He isn’t even doing anything - he’s just existing -but the chances to fix carts or tend to broken limbs or even just be happy to see that someone else made it through this nightmare are all gone.

_The Hulk is back_ is the word that apparently spreads through the entire region, to every region he passes through. _The Hulk is here._

And Bruce wants to protest, to clarify— The Hulk is not here, he’s a useless child who wouldn’t come out when he needed to and certainly won’t now. Bruce Banner is here, and he may have a temper and too much unresolved childhood trauma but he’s only wandering the world now trying to help a few souls who might not be getting it otherwise, not a real solution but maybe he would be able to turn it into one some day. It’s more than he would have been doing in America or New Asgard. It’s more than he was, until someone somewhere recognized Bruce Banner and put two and two together and now open relief turned to suspicious acceptance has turned into full on mistrust and fear.

_You’re a monster,_ he tells himself, because his dad was always right. His only hope is to keep going - maybe if he goes far enough he’ll find a place where word hasn’t travelled, where he can help people again. But it’s so faint, and if that ends up not being the case then, well… what is the point to him, anyway?

And there’s ultimately no escape from himself.

He swears he can feel the rage radiate off of him.

One foot in front of the other.

* * *

“Rise and shine, brother,” Loki says, kneeling over Thor’s spot on the couch, breath ghosting over his cheek. “The sun’s high in the sky, so surely you’ve slept enough by now.”

“Fuck off,” Thor mumbles into the couch cushions, turning over and burying his face deeper into the corner, where he can ignore the sun shining in through his window and his not-brother’s silky smooth voice taunting him.

“Really, Thor,” Loki sighs dramatically, sitting on the back of the couch, his shadow falling over Thor’s upper half, “are you not a king? Is your rule truly going to be worse than mine? Get up.”

Thor scoffs into the couch for a moment, but then almost obliges, half-sitting up and throwing the blanket off of him. He has a perfectly good bed. He did not use his perfectly good bed last night, he passed out drinking beer on the couch. He woke up once, around daybreak, but it didn’t seem worth it to relocate, so he just went back to sleep, until his subconscious decided to start bullying him again.

“You,” he says, pointing at the not-Loki, “are the worst. You’re not even really here and you’re giving me shit like you have any right to. I’d gladly take it from you if you were real but since you’re just a figment of my imagination, I need you to fuck off.”

Loki raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you speak to Heimdall this way?”

“Heimdall isn’t an asshole,” Thor mutters, sitting up all the way. He folds his hands in his lap and pointedly ignores the clock. He knows he’s not going to like what he sees. “Wasn’t.”

“Ah, so you do recall how tenses work.”

Thor stays silent. He knows he’s just talking to himself. He knows he’s just beating himself up, albeit in new and creative ways as time passes. It’s just that there’s absolutely nothing else for him to do. No conflict has arisen; New Asgard is a sovereign nation respected and seen as a friend across this world. Thor has never been in power during times of peace. He helped facilitate war when it was supposed to be his time of power. He remains terrified.

Steve had returned at one point, a month or so back, at Thor’s request; some of the more learned members of New Asgard had wanted to try their hands at diplomacy, and Thor could think of no better tutor. He’d recalled how Rhodey had helped him before he went before the UN, and had asked for his assistance as well. Thor frowns at the memory - they’re both warriors, he’d fought alongside them, and yet they were capable of operating in times of peace, the words came so easily to Steve and the chain of command so naturally to Rhodey in ways Thor had never been able to grasp.

Then there were the citizens who had stepped up. On the one hand, Thor was grateful for them: they wanted to do a job he was not capable of. On the other hand, it just served as a reminder to him of all that he’s lost; in a different world, Loki could have been a splendid diplomat. Thor knows that’s envisioning an extremely rosy version of his brother that did not exist - who would trust the god of mischief in an ambassador role? - but he can so easily hear the tones that emanated from his silver tongue reverberating in his skull, completely unable to replicate them.

In this world, Thor is useless.

He looks over at the clock. It’s well past mid-day. He swears as he stands up.

“Oh, my,” Loki’s voice comes back to life, “letting yourself go there, aren’t you, brother?”

Thor looks down at himself. He does have something of a gut starting to take shape. He’s feeling increasingly sluggish with each passing day.

He shrugs.

“Imagine if I were really here,” Loki says, “alive to see you in this sorry state. Do you plan on rectifying it any time soon? Or is this who you are now?”

Thor wordlessly brushes past the not-Loki, retreating to his bathroom. He takes a glance at the shower and then decides just deodorant and a fresh shirt and cloak will do. At least he still has those. He’ll do laundry tonight, he decides.

“The mighty Thor,” Loki says when Thor re-emerges. He looks as polished as ever, save for the broken neck and dead eyes.

“Fuck off,” Thor says under his breath, exiting his home.

He steps out into the fresh air, sea breeze hitting his nostrils, sun bathing his skin. It is, by all accounts, a lovely day. People move about the town below him. Thor looks to its square, where he can see the statue of Odin they’d constructed - not big enough to make out its details from this distance, but of course he’d know exactly what it looked like, even from here - and recalls his father’s death. It had initially been mostly a nice day then, as well.

Odin had hinted to him that this would be the spot Asgard would settle. Hinted that he would make the right choice in causing Ragnarok. Thor had done something good, something smart, for once. And he’d followed through on the promise he hadn’t been aware he was making at the time: this was where Odin had wanted Asgard to settle and, wise as he was, he’d been right. 

There is a sense of happiness in Thor that he did, indeed, do something correctly. The statue is nice. It cannot compete with the surrounding natural world. That was by design; nothing should be able to compete with it.

Thor thinks he should head into town. He should go to their governance building, or their library where their records and early drafts are kept, or to see Valkyrie or any other Asgardian trying their hands at proper Midgard integration and communication. He does not; he takes a few steps forward and then simply sits down in the grass before his home, perched atop the tallest hill, and watches.

There is a group of children playing with a ball in the field below him. One of the Midgardians who had taken an extended stay in New Asgard the year before had called the game football as he had taught it to the kids. Another had argued with him, saying the game was actually called soccer. They had nearly come to blows and Thor had found himself near giggling at the almost-fight, along with many others: an extremely welcome break from all the labours of rebuilding.

It’s strange, Thor muses, looking at the children running back and forth. None are particularly old. Some would remember Asgard as it was, would have taken their first steps there, said their first words there. Maybe some learned to read there. But they have a school here, now; many are learning to read on Midgard instead. That there would be Asgardians who couldn’t read a single word on their home world, only understood the written word once it had been annihilated—

_There should be more children,_ his mind absently supplies. The group below him have enough to be split into respectable teams, but they’re still short. Four runners on each side, no goalkeepers. If this had been Asgard there would be enough kids for subs.

Of course, there would be more children had Ragnarok not occurred.

Had he killed Thanos properly the first time he had the chance.

Or the second. Not the third.

He thinks: they have a school, for children of all ages. Adults learn there, as well. They should have more buildings. Bruce, when he had been in New Asgard, had mentioned going to school in three or four or five different locations. Rhodey had mentioned trying to keep up with Tony as Tony learned faster than he did, kept going to new buildings before Rhodey could. But New Asgard’s meagre population only has enough people to require a single school.

He thinks: they have a hospital of their own. An exchange program had been set up with Midgardians: learn how the Asgardians healed, learn how Midgardians patched their wounds. Steve had set it up. He’d marvelled at it, really, this basic building; he talked about how different medical care had been in the midst of war zones on Midgard 80 years earlier. How even something as humble as this was an improvement. How amazing this cultural exchange was; how many more people all of them would be able to help by learning from each other.

(Rhodey had stiffly walked out, leaving them to it. “I don’t want to feel like a science experiment,” he had said. “I can’t handle that right now.”

He is the only one still in contact with Tony, Thor learns later.)

He thinks: they may never come close to regaining the population they once had, but some Asgardians who had survived the journey had been pregnant. Others had become pregnant later. Babies are born in that hospital. Asgardians who had never seen, would never set foot on, would never know Asgard.

He thinks: it’s new life. It’s a testament to survival. It’s a testament to their strength. It is a miracle and it is to be celebrated, on both micro and macro scales.

He thinks: he is a failure who deprived these children of their heritage, left only to learn of it in fairy tales, which they will only dismiss as they age, and Asgard will die.

Thor did that, all on his own.

He stands up, turns around, marches back inside his abode, and returns to slumber, this time in his bed. He does not do any laundry.

He wakes to a pounding on his door. It takes Thor a moment to realize three things: it is a new daybreak, the pounding in his head is because of its physical manifestation on the door (he is not hungover! Thank the Norns for small victories), and the pounding could only come from one person.

Thor groggily sits up. He is still wearing the same clothing from the day before. But not like he did anything in it, so it’s clean, right? The pounding continues. Thor figures he’s decent enough as is, it’s not like presentation matters anyway, so he rises and opens the door.

Valkyrie steps back now that the only thing left for her to hit is Thor’s belly. She crosses her arms and looks off to the side. “You’re late,” she mutters.

“For?” Thor asks, innocently enough, or so he thinks.

Valkyrie looks sharply up at him at that. “Seriously?” she spits. Oh. She’s genuinely angry. Thor feels guilty. “Council. Or are you not the ruler here?”

Thor opens his hands, gives up, half-heartedly punches his flat palm. “Right,” he says, “then let’s get to it.”

Valkyrie looks him up and down, distaste clear on her features. “Looking like that?” she asks. No, it’s not totally distaste - she’s better than to be so purely petty. There’s a sadness, too. 

No, not sadness. Disappointment.

_Fuck._

“She’s right, you know,” Loki, spiritual form not even present, whispers across his ear. 

Thor ignores him. “But aren’t I late?”

Valkyrie kicks at his shin, but it’s half-hearted, reminiscent of their first days together. What’s a little physical violence among friends? That’s how they bonded, after all. And she even has the decency to look at least a little guilty - “No, actually” - the guilt disappears - “because I knew this would happen and I figured if I came to you now you’d have enough time to put yourself together and actually arrive on time for once.”

Thor tilts his head and squints his eyes at her, accusatory, before breaking out into a wide grin and laughing. She joins in. “You are likely right,” he says.

“I usually am.” Valkyrie wrinkles her nose. “Please go shower now.”

She’s content to wait outside. Thor steps under the running water. It feels amazing. It isn’t that everything washes away, but it’s a shock to his system: he’s still alive, he can still feel, he can be clean. In this moment there’s nothing but him and the water. He leans forward under the shower head, resting his forehead against the wall, and just breathes. Usually, when his mind is blank, it’s blank with an angry buzz all consuming him. Here, it’s just blank. Silent.

When he gets out, two orange eyes stare back at him from the fog on the mirror. He stares back, unblinkingly. He combs his still-growing hair. Runs his hand over the longer beard that’s starting to form. Brushes his teeth. Uses moisturizer. Feels like a normal person. The fog fades; one eye turns back to blue.

He goes to dress in properly fitting clothes. Fuck. They don’t fit. Something only a little oversized, then. A brown-red cloak; the mornings can be nippy. 

It feels like it’s been an hour, he’s so relaxed. It’s been fifteen minutes. Valkyrie looks him up and down when he steps back out, black boots pulled on as his last item of preparation, nods once, and they make their way to the monthly meeting.

They are the only meetings Thor shows up to anymore. He did not communicate this to Steve or Rhodey. It does not come up in his occasional conversations with Natasha (most of which she initiates; there’s a nervous energy to her, but it’s hardly Thor’s position to judge, so he does not bring it up). Valkyrie does not breach the subject with him, nor does anybody else in governance. It is their unspoken agreement: something is fucked but it’s easier for everybody to ignore it so let’s just all ignore it.

“They are enabling you,” Loki says. His not-physical form is back, joining them on their walk into town. “They are afraid of you, so they let you do as you please. After all, who would be so foolish as to try to pick a fight with you? You’re a child and your temper tantrums are mighty indeed. Asgard has already suffered enough without you electrocuting everyone to death.”

Thor lets him say his piece because who is he to argue? It’s true. He’s stupid and dangerous. But also because, has he not earned this? After everything since his sister, has he not earned the right to just take a fucking year or two off? He’s tired. Just let him sleep. Even Odin had that.

He sits at the head of the table, because that is his spot, his fraudulence front and centre. Everyone knows it. Nobody argues it, because he is king and that is where he is supposed to sit. They review the minutes from the previous meeting. Trades are continuing to hold steady; new agreements initiated in the past month are just coming to fruition and will be reviewed at a later date. They continue to have an issue with generating a steady source of power, and it’s disrupting new Midgardian systems they wouldn’t have thought to have dealt with before (particularly the transfer of currency, which has been a nightmare for locals and visitors alike).

“I will look into it,” Thor promises, and this one he actually means. This isn’t like his rubber stamping of cultural or practice exchanges (he does not know what the proposals are half the time and does not care; Steve seemed to think one was a good idea so they all must be). Worst case scenario, he’s very familiar with electricity for the short term. More likely, he will put out a call for help. Someone who studied under Bruce when he was here will probably respond, along with a scholar or teacher or two. They may have to spend more on materials, but it will be worth it in the long run, and their national deficit really isn’t bad at all, all things considered. Beside him, Heimdall nods in approval.

“Thank you,” Thor says.

His heart stops as all eyes turn to look at him.

“Thor…?” someone gently questions. He barely hears it through the blood rushing through his ears.

He responded in public.

He has never before responded in public.

He looks to Heimdall in a panic, seeking some kind of solution. Heimdall just smiles at him sadly, apologetically. “Sorry, Thor,” he rasps, and oh, it’s the same tone he used when channelling dark magic for his final act, it’s the only tone Thor ever hears from him anymore on the rare occasions he does speak, “I’m afraid, as you have no answer for this one, neither do I.” Behind him, Loki cackles.

“Thor,” someone else says, and he realizes he’s been staring at Valkyrie this entire time, and she’s looking back at him with a mixture of concern, suspicion, and knowing.

He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, “thought I heard someone say something. Now, we should draw up an advertisement, but first, does anyone know anyone who specialized in power generation when we were first constructing New Asgard?” And he launches, full force, into leadership mode, like he knows what he’s talking about. If Heimdall were really here, he would know exactly the people they should go to. But he is not, and Thor is left to parrot the words he sometimes interjects with only he can hear when his brain runs too fast for his mouth, and he’s left desperately hoping everyone has forgotten his earlier slip up.

Four hours later, and New Asgard continues to run smoothly, more efficiently, and with a new approved space for an inner-town community garden that they will be able to divide into proper plots once community interest has been properly gauged.

Thor makes his way to their small power plant. Valkyrie joins him. “Are you okay there?” she asks, and the gruff teasing nature is gone, replaced with pure concern.

“Perfect,” Thor says, his voice not wavering in the slightest. “I want to take a preliminary look and see how everything is holding up, but hopefully we’ll have some people who know what they’re doing join me by late afternoon.”

“That isn’t what I’m talking about at all,” Valkyrie says.

Thor stops. He makes proper eye contact with her for the first time since the morning. If there’s any one person who deserves his full and unconditional honesty, it’s her. “I know,” Thor says. “But I really would like to see to this today.”

“Tomorrow you’ll give me a real answer, then?” she asks.

“Yes,” Thor promises, and he means it.

He doesn’t return to his own abode until the sun has gone down. They will need to buy new parts. He would like to know which nation, which company will be able to provide the best, most reliable ones. It would be nice to have a power source they can properly count on, refrigerators that won’t suddenly go out and leave food spoiled, proper temperature control before winter settles in. This is a spare no expenses moment. But people smarter than him, with more contacts than him (wasn’t ever going to be able to just rely on Bruce and Tony, he knew that) are looking into it.

That’s what a country is. Even in a nation of two thousand he cannot be reasonably expected to do everything for everyone.

Two thousand.

He was to be coronated in front of a healthy, prospering Asgard. A transition in peaceful times. Previous ruler still there. All high position advisors still there. Heimdall still there. A full populace still there. Actual Asgard itself still there. He had everything in the palm of his hand, his future set, the world before him limitless in possibilities— 

And he abandoned it to start a war. He threw it all away because he wanted to. Well. Smash, he supposes.

He prays there is not another war in his lifetime, because it is going to take several lifetimes to rebuild. He will never again see Asgard as it once was, he can only hope to set the foundations for it to return proper.

He prays there is another war because it is the only thing he is any good at.

The last time Thor had actually wanted to rule, he had everything laid out and waiting for him. But when all was said and done, he no longer wanted to rule; he found he was not prepared for it, not experienced or mature enough, even after his little redemption arc in a small town (is that what it all leads to now, small towns? It’s what he now gets to rule over, and nothing more). And what, he was supposed to gain the experience and wisdom actually required over the course of a mere six years?

If he has gained it, though, then he has lost everything else. And it will never come back. So any gains were for nothing.

“Heimdall, I seek your counsel,” he says.

“I have none to give,” Heimdall replies.

“Loki, at least let your tongue flow through mine, lend me the confidence that came to you so I may be a good king.”

“You know you’ll never have it. It’s dead. You’d do better to stop talking to ghosts.”

Thor rises from his couch and heads to his own busted fridge, more a fancy cupboard than anything at this point. It will get fixed. People more capable than he will follow the plan of action and it will get fixed. The beer inside is warm now, though, but that hardly matters.

Thor does not see Valkyrie the next day, because he does not wake from his drunken stupor until the sun has gone back down. So then he starts it anew, because it’s not as though he has anything else to do but remember all that was supposed to happen that never will, and he’d really rather not.

The laundry does not get done.

* * *

A dull agony sweeping across his body nurses him back to consciousness. The pain is like a muscle memory; he hasn’t felt it in a long time, but it’s nothing new. It still takes a lot to readjust, though.

Bruce slowly blinks back into existence. His eyes stay shut, though the activity behind them indicates a slow rebooting of his systems. An involuntary twitch sends pain shooting up his right arm; he absentmindedly lifts his shoulder a little higher and it’s stiff, and it hurts, but it’s a good hurt. He wants to keep moving his shoulder so he can keep feeling that, so he does.

He stretches his legs out. It’s agonizing. He stretches them further before letting them settle in the sand, cool beneath him.

Oh, no, wait. This is unpleasant, Bruce realizes, as higher brain functions light back up. He has an inkling of what happened; too much of him is feeling the sand he’s lying on top of. There are tattered bits of cloth hanging off his now-lithe frame that somehow managed to survive. They are not necessarily in the most ideal of places.

Would that the pants would always stay on even as his body reconstructs itself. They do not.

Bruce exhales into the cold air and slowly opens his eyes. He’s hit with a rush of stars and dusting of his own galaxy, and the first coherent thought that forms is, _I’ve been so far beyond all of this._

From the amount he can see above, it’s clear he’s completely alone. There’s nothing resembling any kind of human society. There is no light pollution. There are no man-made sounds. The sand is an indicator he is suddenly much further south than he was before, a great distance covered in leaps and bounds he’d never be able to do on his own, but someone else…

Bruce lets his head flop back into the sand, not particularly caring as it rubs against his neck and mixes in with his hair. The fine grains can get in his eyes for all it matters; it’s not like it will really mean any kind of suffering in the long run. He could just lie here, wait for the sun to rise, cook him, and be no worse for the wear. He could wait to shrivel from lack of water, waste away from lack of food, and it wouldn’t matter. A storm could kick up and he could be buried alive, sand and debris storming down his windpipe, and he’d still be there, or at least emerge again eventually.

So Bruce just lies there. His shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore when he moves it, it’s just stiff. His entirety is. He stares upwards, eyes eventually picking out Altair from the stars above, the Summer Triangle, identifying he’s at least still in the Northern Hemisphere.

So that’s probably good.

Quickly growing bored - he’s been through the moping process enough times; and really, over the past several months, he’s always been on the move, so being awake and still is a foreign feeling all over again - Bruce sits up. The sand shifts under him. He looks ahead of him, rather than up, and sees an expanse of nothing but dunes and horizon. He’d have been tempted to recall his time in New Mexico originally, but this is a completely different desert. Completely different life. Completely different world.

Bruce exhales into the cool night air, bringing up a hand to try to get the sand out of his hair, off his face. He spits a few times, both clearing his mouth and creating the worst circumstances for a partial wash.

He’d never even gone camping as a kid (why would he have?), so it’s still something of a wonder how he ended up with this as his day-to-day life. The first time he hadn’t had much of a choice, making the best of being on the run; the second time it just felt right to return to those forced roots.

But now he’s really, truly alone. The only actual move he has left in his playbook is to stand up and just start walking in any direction, near naked and officially with no possessions left in the world. And he really, really doesn’t want to do that.

Without thinking, he throws out into the empty universe before him, “What happened?”

“Attacked,” a voice responds, damn well giving him a near heart attack. “Saved you.” The disdain is dripping from it, like a child who damn well knows he’s right but isn’t going to get properly rewarded or appreciated or even acknowledged for it. “Like always.”

“The _fuck_ ,” Bruce gasps out.

Unintelligible grumbling answers him, merely frustrated sounds without much behind them, or so he thinks. It takes Bruce another few moments to get a sense of his new bearings. He looks around him; it’s still just him, nothing but sand and sky as far as his eyes can see from this vantage point. And yet.

“Did you hurt anyone,” Bruce asks, voice flat.

The Hulk shrugs.

Bruce bristles. “It matters if you hurt someone,” he says, like he’s trying to lecture a small child. He supposes he is.

“Why?” the Hulk asks, and Bruce can feel his own temper spiking.

“Because hurting people is bad,” he snaps, fully aware of how his own cycle of abuse is playing into this and beyond caring. He fucking hates it when he can empathize with his dad. Just another reminder he’s a monster.

“People hurt you,” Hulk says, then immediately corrects, “people hurt Hulk.”

“Just because you get hurt doesn’t mean it’s okay for you to hurt others,” Bruce says.

Hulk just laughs at that, and Bruce can see him pointing back at him. He takes the index finger, as thick as his arm, and forces it down. Hulk immediately stops laughing and glares at Bruce instead; Bruce is more than willing to oblige the staring contest.

“Don’t touch Hulk,” Hulk says, voice a low growl. A warning.

“Fuck you,” Bruce spits out. “Where the hell were you when we needed you?”

Hulk bares his teeth in a snarl. Bruce returns it, standing up to get directly in his face, their noses near touching. They’re like two rabid dogs circling one another, each ready to tear the other’s throat out at a moment’s notice, except that’s not possible, so they’re locked in a standoff that has no obvious breaking point.

“People died because of you,” Bruce says first, cutting through the animalistic noises. “Because you were too much of a coward to come out and fight.”

Hulk has the decency to look offended. “People died because of _Banner_ ,” he responds, pulling back so he has enough room to brush Bruce aside and to the ground, the palm of his hand eclipsing Bruce’s face and forcing him away. Bruce turns upwards from the sand, glare not going anywhere as he defiantly stares up at Hulk standing over him. “Banner weak. That’s why Banner here. Banner wants to die and Hulk won’t let him because Hulk won’t die.”

“What. Happened,” Bruce gets out through gritted teeth.

Hulk’s body language turns passive again, angry expression fading as he shrugs. “People scared of Hulk, so people attack Banner. Banner just lie there and let it happen. So Hulk came back, threw mob far away, then got away. Now Hulk here, stuck with puny, whiny Banner.”

“You literally picked up and threw people,” Bruce says.

“Yes.”

“So you’ve definitely just killed a bunch of people, then.” The fight temporarily leaves Bruce as he squats down and stares forward with unseeing eyes. He won’t vocalize the _I just killed a bunch of people,_ that won’t do any good here. The one thing he wanted to avoid at all costs - the very antithesis to wandering the world so he could help those that were being overlooked - and it happened anyway. Because of course it did. Because he’s a monster.

“Hulk save Hulk,” Hulk says. The _And Banner_ stays implied, but unspoken; it’s not like that was Hulk’s motive and it’s clearly not like it was what Bruce wanted.

“Does it feel good?” Bruce asks out of nowhere. Hulk just gives him a quizzical look. “Does it feel good to destroy lives for the sake of your own?”

Hulk just stares at him incredulously. “That’s not what Hulk do.”

“That is _exactly_ what you do,” Bruce snaps. “You can’t just punch people or throw people and think it’s okay. When you do it? That hurts people. That kills people. And for what? Yourself? Your life is worth that much more than other people’s?”

“For _you_ ,” Hulk barks, stray bit of spittle flying from his mouth. “Hulk do it to save _you_. Everything Hulk do is for Banner. Banner was going to die if no Hulk, so Hulk save Banner. This the thanks Hulk get.”

“I never asked to be saved—“

“You _always_ ask to be saved!” Hulk roars, voice reaching new decibels. “Even when Hulk couldn’t help, Banner still ask. Banner sit there, crying, mean nurse, Daddy mean, Banner hurt and can’t fight back because Banner weak. Hulk there watching, Hulk there feeling everything Banner feels, but Hulk can’t do anything. But Banner always asked. Hulk there for that.”

Bruce blinks back to his childhood, not recalling any of this. “You couldn’t have been there. You didn’t exist until a decade ago.”

“Hulk there,” Hulk insists. “Hulk remember.”

“No, you’re just picking up on fragments of my memory. It’s a side effect of us sharing the same body.”

Hulk snorts, rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Banner tell himself what Banner want to make him feel better.”

“You want to talk about feeling better?” Bruce snaps, despair and shock at Hulk’s previous words leaving him, replaced with his earlier budding agitation. “Where the hell did you go when we needed you to fight? Central Park, nothing, just your own crying and screaming. Wakanda, same thing. With you we might have been able to stop him, rip the glove off, tear his arm off for all I care—“

“No!” Hulk yells back at him, shaking his head, hands clamped over his ears. “No, no, no!”

“No what? No you couldn’t have stopped him? So you’re not the strongest there is? You got bested once and that was all it took for you to give up forever, to not come back out until I was ready to go and instead you emerge just to kill a bunch of innocent people?” Bruce is standing back up, on the high ground now, looking down at Hulk, albeit just barely.

“They not innocent if they want to kill Hulk!” Hulk yells back, lowering his arms and removing all pretence of ignoring Bruce, fists clenched behind him, shaking but unused.

“Maybe it would be for the greater good!” Bruce yells. “If you aren’t going to be available to fight an actual threat, then why should you come out for fights against people who have no chance against you? You’re a destructive force and you can’t even use that to help other people. You’re only in this for yourself, you monster.”

“At least Hulk _can_ fight,” Hulk retorts. “Not like useless Banner. Banner mad at Hulk for not fighting back, but what was Banner doing when Mommy died?”

Bruce’s blood immediately runs cold. All the rage he’d been feeling before completely takes over, lapping itself so that he feels a deadly calm, the exact kind he did when he was a teenager and was pushed a little too far, had too many a mental break, but still fully in control of his thoughts and actions. The kind when he would do actual damage over the course of his life, a complete break from an otherwise striving need found later to do good.

“What?” is all he manages to get out, back to a normal speaking voice.

Hulk’s done yelling, too, it would seem. “Hulk was there,” he says, like he’s explaining basic facts to a child, the mocking temporarily gone. “Mommy wanted to run away, take Banner and Hulk with her. We were leaving. And then Daddy—“

“Shut up,” Bruce immediately snaps.

“—shove Mommy to the ground, and Banner just _watch_ —“

“You fucking asshole.”

“—and Hulk screamed, and Hulk was ready to smash, but Hulk couldn’t because Banner wouldn’t let Hulk, all Banner do was cry. That’s all Banner good for. Banner have no right to be mad at Hulk.”

“I was a _child_ ,” Bruce snarls. Functioning on autopilot he advances and shoves Hulk down into the sand. “There’s only so much an _eight-year-old_ can do against the grown man who beats him. What did you want me to do, get up and kick his ass? Hey Bruce, you just watched your dad murder your mom, nevermind the shock and trauma of that in the moment, you should get up and use your child-sized fists to kill him. That’s what you wanted? That’s how we die, too.”

Hulk stares up at him, briefly mesmerized that he’s the one looking up from the ground. “Hulk could do it.”

“No, you couldn’t have, because you didn’t exist until I thought I could play god with gamma radiation.”

Hulk pushes himself back up to his feet and advances. “Hulk exist,” he insists, nostrils flaring. “Hulk there.”

“No, you weren’t,” Bruce growls. “You know when you are there, though? You’re there for everyone you actually end up killing. How many other people’s mothers do you think you’ve killed in the collateral, huh? It’s probably in the hundreds, right? How many do you think you killed on the way here? God, I just try to help people, but I can’t, because of you, because you’re just like Dad—“

Hulk actually punches him at that, and though it doesn’t hurt, it does send Bruce stumbling back, the wind knocked out of him for a moment. It accomplishes Hulk’s goal: making him shut up. Bruce looks up and sees Hulk’s eyes narrowed, his teeth grinding together, and it’s not as though he gets close looks at him ever, but he figures this might be the most pissed off Hulk has ever been.

The most pissed off _he’s_ ever been, maybe.

“Hulk _nothing_ like Dad,” Hulk growls, deep from his throat, a guttural noise barely intelligible, except Bruce knows exactly what he’s saying.

“Where am I wrong?” Bruce asks, standing back up to his full height. There’s a distance between them now, albeit one Hulk is crossing. “You say you were there, fine. Isn’t that what Dad did every time Mom stood up to him? Hit her? Hit me? How are you not like him?”

He can see a vein bulging, he swears, but Hulk does stop. His hands are flexing, but it’s like he knows he isn’t allowed to use them, suddenly. That he’d prove Bruce’s point. “You,” he says when he finds his voice again. “You push Hulk down. You like Dad, not Hulk.”

“Only because you—“ Bruce starts, snaps his mouth shut as he realizes where that sentence was ending. _Made me do it._ He turns around at that, bites into his forearm to keep from screaming instead. That actually hurts. It does nothing to recede his anger or calm him down. So much for everything - everything - he ever tried to do to keep the Hulk at bay, improve his mental health, just _calm the fuck down_. His answer then had been to make peace with his anger, but that doesn’t seem possible now, not when one of its defining incidents has been drudged up when he’s actively been running from it.

Bruce grits his teeth, trying to force his arms to stop shaking. “I was trying,” he says, turning back around. “I was _trying_ ,” he repeats, voice a mixture of fury and desperation. He can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I was going to do something he’d never done, I was going to help people. I was going to live my quiet life and just help people. And I never could because at some point or another you came, you forced your way out, and you just hurt and killed people, like he did to Mom. I wanted to get away from that moment but you _keep bringing it back_.” The last part comes out strangled, and he feels helpless, beyond helpless, a way he hasn’t felt in so, so long, that he’d been trying to expel from his very being.

Hulk’s breathing is audible, the only noise filling the atmosphere it seems like. He stops moving, though, the distance between the two close but not invading. His fists are clenched but he isn’t shaking, the picture of that previously controlled anger, face still contorted in a scowl.

“Hulk never forget it,” he grits out. This is a new moment: one where there’s no violent solution. He doesn’t know what to do. Bruce looks up at him at that, though, and they actually make eye contact for the first time. “Hulk never going to forget it. Hulk remember being powerless and Hulk not going to let it happen again.”

There’s another flash of anger inside Bruce at that, even as an understanding washes over him, the both of them: why Hulk wouldn’t fight again after he’d lost. Why his default response is violence. Bruce absolutely hates him for it, this physical manifestation of everything that’s gone wrong in his life, will continue to go wrong as the cycle keeps turning, and he outright says as much.

“Hulk hate Banner, too,” Hulk says in response. How he’s everything the Hulk is actively trying to avoid and still can’t escape, a constant reminder of every failure he’s ever had to experience, though the list is far shorter and less complex.

“You hate an eight-year-old,” Bruce snorts, crossing his arms in indignation. “And thanks to that we’ll never get to move on, and you’ll just keep ruining other people’s, other kids’, lives. Like the world isn’t bad enough already - you’re here to make it even worse.”

“Hulk not making it worse.” He leans down, far enough to rest his forehead against Bruce’s, bring them properly eye to eye, forcing his arms to uncross and hang limply back at their sides. “Banner making it worse. Hulk want to be left alone, Hulk was alone. On Sakaar, Hulk happy. First time ever. First time _ever_ , Hulk happy. Banner take that away. Why?”

Unable to really go anywhere else, Bruce just stares directly into his eyes. They’re green, but his own, he recognizes. And it hurts to see that - to no longer be able to deny that maybe things weren’t always his fault, that maybe all the hurt and destruction was still on him in a way.

But unlike with Hulk’s irrational anger, he actually does have an answer for him: “Because Thor asked for our help.”

Hulk blinks, clarity washing over him. He backs away and Bruce does the same, eyeing him. Hulk makes no move to step back towards him, though. Instead, he just says, “Hulk like Thor.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, craning his neck to look back up at the sky instead. The stars have shifted. He turns himself and finds north, a vague approximation of where New Asgard would physically be, where Thor would presumably be as well. “I like Thor, too.”

“Why we leave?” Hulk asks, and there’s a childlike innocence to his words that truly makes Bruce sick. It’s still his childhood, and he still doesn’t want to think about it.

“Because we couldn’t help anyone there anymore,” Bruce says, and the pronoun shift briefly dawns on him. “He had a high profile case and lots of other people much more capable ready to help him. I wanted to help those being ignored. For all the good that’s apparently done, since I just ended up scaring and killing them.”

Bruce sits back down then, the fight finally gone from his system. There’s just an aching acceptance now: this was what his life was always going to be, a destructive force he has no way of quelling. He vaguely thinks: he really should just stay out here. Sure, it won’t do any good, his physical form will survive whatever onslaught the desert can throw at him, but if the natural elements can just bury him then maybe that’ll be enough to shut his combative nature down for good. His baser instincts won’t be compelled to fight back against the sand.

And it will suck - his mind is too bright and active to be dully reduced to nothingness over years and years and years - but for everything he’s done, it’s probably the least of what he’ll deserve.

Except then Hulk sits down next to him. He follows his gaze, kind of, not quite identifying the north star but instead off to the side, the one that will become the north star in a couple thousand years. Then he looks back down and to his side, right at Bruce, and speaks again.

“Hulk only protecting Hulk,” he says, but it’s quiet, no threat or posturing, just a simple fact from a child who maybe could have put himself in harm’s path first but just didn’t one night. “Everything Hulk do, protecting Hulk. And protecting Bruce, too.”

Bruce shuts his eyes. “You’re going about it the wrong way.”

“Hulk not know any other way.”

Bruce worries at his lip. He keeps his bite down on the lower one, trying to figure out how to word what to say next. When it comes to him, he has a difficult time actually getting it out, the first words going against every single one of his instincts.

“It’s not your fault,” he finally says. He feels like he’s attacking a universal truth in saying it, but he really can’t find a logical way to combat it. “It’s Dad’s. He helped shape us into who we were going to become. It’s… it’s on us, too, but if he hadn’t…” He trails it off there, still not comfortable with going back to that moment.

The silence eats up the atmosphere again, but when Hulk speaks up, Bruce’s eyes snap back open and he turns to look at him incredulously.

“So how Hulk not be like him?” he asks, and it’s so innocent. “Hulk want to be happy again.”

Bruce feels like the air has been knocked out of him. He searches Hulk’s face and really, really sees his own reflected back. He’d seen it before, but always on a screen, in a recording, and always with a strong base emotion attached to it: never with an underlying intelligence ( _his own intelligence,_ he corrects), never with a desire to learn and grow and _be a better person_.

But since running was his only previously known option, and it’s no longer available to him: “I don’t know,” he answers.

“Hmph,” Hulk grunts, turning to stare forward, across the endless expanse of desert.

But then - there has to be a better fate than being buried alive, doesn’t there? That’s almost the life he was living on Sakaar, even if it was being buried by his own consciousness. And he still has to have more to offer - he has to.

“Just because I don’t know doesn’t mean we won’t figure it out,” Bruce says. Hulk turns back to him at that, and Bruce realizes they’re mirroring each other’s position, the way they had been pretty much the entire time, only now it isn’t through anger and that’s completely different. Completely different is what they need, though. “Let’s try something we’ve never done before. Let’s work together.”

Hulk raises his eyebrows at that. “Work together,” he repeats, scepticism dripping from his voice.

“Why not?” Bruce asks. “Fighting each other for years has only pissed us both off.”

It takes a beat and it happens so suddenly, so inexplicably: they both grin at the exact same time, the mirror keeping up. It isn’t a happy grin, far more of a self-deprecating, sardonic one, but it’s also the beginning of something.

And then Bruce wakes up, lying flat on his back, staring up at the stars all over again. The Milky Way’s dusting is in a different position now, though, and still he thinks, _I’ve been so far beyond all of this._

He sits up, feeling stiff, limbs snapping back into place. A dull agony has been washed over his entire body, and he feels like he has a splitting headache, literally.

The rags still don’t offer much protection, and it’s only going to get worse when the sun comes up, he figures. His bag is definitely long gone, and he has no idea where he’ll go to replace any of it, get back any of the bare necessities he needs if he’s to continue on this plane of existence. Extracting himself from the middle of nowhere is going to take far too much time, and for all he knows the direction he’ll go in will make things far worse.

He still doesn’t even know where he truly is, just that he’s much further south than he should have been.

Bruce throws a question to the wind: “Do you want to take the wheel?”

_Yes,_ an echo he both had and hadn’t been expecting answers.

And for the first time, as he feels everything contort, Bruce realizes: he isn’t going away. As he loses faculty over his muscles and movements, he still stays present in the moment. And as legs far more powerful than his could ever be launch into the air, he can still feel the wind on his skin and whipping through his hair that he’s really going to need to get cut.

Decades later, there isn’t quite an understanding, but a truce. But the further north he returns - the further west he goes? - the more the possibility of the former could be realized.

In the present, experiencing his first steps cover so much ground is something he never would have believed until he actually saw it happening, not quite with his own eyes but also, somehow, exactly that.

“Okay,” he’d conceded, expecting nothingness and getting the opposite.

**Author's Note:**

> The outline for this is done (it's long!); the writing is not. Tags will be added as they become relevant, and there will definitely be more. 
> 
> In the interim I can be found on miikkasakari.tumblr.com, if anyone so wishes!


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